FROM   AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 


BOOKS   BY 

*  Waller 


THE  WOOD-CARVER  OF  'LYMPUS 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  RICH 

THE  LITTLE  CITIZEN 

SANNA  OF  THE  ISLAND  TOWN 

A  YEAR  OUT  OF  LIFE 

FLAMSTED  QUARRIES 

A  CRY  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

MY  RAGPICKER 

THROUGH    THE   GATES  OF   THE 

NETHERLANDS 
OUR  BENNY 


FROM  AN 
ISLAND   OUTPOST 


BY 


MARY   E.  WALLER 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE   WOOD-CARVER   OF   'LYMPUS,"   "A   CRY   IN 
THE   WILDERNESS,"    "  FLAMSTED   QUARRIES,"   ETC. 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,   BROWN,   AND   COMPANY 
1914 


Copyright,  1914, 
BY  MARY  E.  WALLER. 

All  rights  reserved 
Published,  April,  1914 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J .  S.  Cushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass. ,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


DR.  JOHN   SHACKFORD    GROUARD 

OF 

THE   ISLAND    OUTPOST 


M159985 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     ARRIVAL        i 

II.     BY  WIRELESS n 

III.  BEACH  PLUM  JELLY  AND  SOME  PRACTICAL 

DEDUCTIONS 26 

IV.  ROOTS,  SUBSOIL,  AND  LANDED  ESTATES     .  34 
V.     THE  "PASS" 59 

VI.     OUTLOOK       71 

VII.  CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS     ...  91 

VIII.     MY  MAIL 102 

IX.     A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI 127 

X.     BY  WAY  OF  CONTRAST       142 

XL  AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD     ....  157 

XII.     A  PRIVATE  VIEW        165 

XIII.  THE  WINDS        176 

XIV.  LITTLE  GARDENS  BY  THE  SEA     .     .     .     .  188 
XV.     Low  TIDES 206 

XVI.     HIGH  TIDES 231 

XVII.     SEARCHLIGHTS         249 

XVIII.     THE  GULLS  AND  AVIATION 269 

XIX.     DEEP-SEA  SOUNDINGS 274 

XX.     BEACONS 295 


FROM   AN    ISLAND    OUTPOST 


ARRIVAL 

As  work  interpreting  life  has  taught  me,  as  life  sus 
tained  by  work  has  given  me. 

I. 

SEPTEMBER,  1909. 

MY  first  breathing  spell  in  nine  years ;  and 
during  these  nine  years  I  have  worked  steadily, 
like  a  dray-horse,  in  the  harness  of  necessity. 
Not  once  in  all  these  years  has  that  necessity 
loosened  so  much  as  a  check-rein,  —  and  there 
has  been  much  uphill  work,  —  to  ease  me 
mercifully  till  to-day. 

No  wonder  I  am  sitting  here  in  the  kitchen  of 
this  island  home,  half-dazed,  partly  numb,  and 
wholly  dumb  save  for  the  sound  of  this  pencil 
moving  over  the  paper.  I  look  out  against  a 


2  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

blank  of  dense,  white  fog  that  curtains  the  one 
window.     What  is  beyond  it  ? 

The  boat  on  which  we  came  was  late.  The 
weather  was  so  thick  she  was  forced  to  feel  her 
way  into  the  harbor.  The  wharf  was  ghostly ; 
the  small  crowd  of  people  on  it  mere  phantoms ; 
the  streets  apparently  deserted,  and  the  border 
ing  trees  loomed  fantastic  in  the  mist.  What  a 
night  to  arrive,  unknowing  and  unknown,  on  this 
Island  Outpost  in  the  Atlantic ! 

2. 

I  have  been  getting  my  bearings  this  first 
morning.  The  fog  has  lifted.  To  the  south, 
west,  north,  are  billowing  moors.  They  lie 
uniformly  dun  beneath  the  unbroken  gray  of 
low-hanging  skies  and,  undefined  in  outline, 
blend  with  them  at  the  horizon. 

3- 

I  was  up  early  and  away  to  the  moors  just 
beyond  the  house.  I  found  I  was  in  a  world 
of  strange  and  wonderful  perspective,  for  I 
looked  out  on  a  gently  undulating  sea  of  varied 


ARRIVAL  3 

green  and  brown  grasses,  flecked  here  and  there 
with  the  foam  of  the  wild  carrot  blossoms.  In 
the  foreground  a  flock  of  small,  gray,  white- 
breasted  birds  was  flying  restlessly  and  songless 
from  green  crest  to  brown  crest,  rising  at  inter 
vals  with  a  curiously  uncertain  swing  to  soar 
into  the  brooding  gray  depths  above  them. 

I  recognize  their  mood,  that  of  ante-migra 
tion  :  restless,  songless,  transiently  homeless. 
Many  humans  experience  this.  I  know  that  I 
have  more  than  once. 

i 
4- 

On  this  third  day  the  sun  is  shining.  I  have 
been  out  on  the  moors  again  this  afternoon  and 
I  find  myself  in  another  world,  a  world  of  spa 
cious  light  and  marvellous  nuance  of  neutral 
tints :  soft  grays,  warm  browns,  dark  greens 
underflushed  with  a  hint  of  red  in  the  huckle 
berry  patches.  As  I  stood  on  one  of  the  higher 
swells,  the  spirit  of  me  suddenly  felt  untram 
melled,  free  to  breathe  great  breaths  in  the  spa 
cious  lightness  of  the  softly  moving  air.  Below 
me  the  crooked  moorland  road,  rutted  deep  in 


4  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

sand,  led  to  the  town.  The  huddle  of  gray  roofs 
and  stacks  of  gray,  deep-throated  chimneys 
shone  silver  gray  in  the  clear  sunshine. 

5- 

One  of  the  untranslatable  September  days. 
It  is  impossible  to  render  its  effect  on  body, 
mind,  and  soul,  either  in  words,  colors,  or  tones. 
For  the  time  being  one  may  absorb  infinity  in 
the  intersecting  planes  of  thought,  tone,  color; 
but  the  word  that  would  translate,  the  land 
scape  that  would  picture,  the  harmony  that 
would  reveal,  are  mere  circumscribed  instru 
mentation  for  its  expression.  Still,  circum 
scribed  as  are  our  powers,  we  can  reach  certain 
interpretations.  I  find  suggestions  of  such  a 
day  as  this  in  one  of  Homer  Martin's  landscapes, 
in  two  lines  from  Lanier's  "  Hymns  of  the 
Marshes",  in  an  adaptation,  or  rather,  I  should 
say,  in  an  interpretation  by  Tschaikowsky  of  a 
"Prayer"  by  Mozart. 

6. 

I  have  taken  my  first  drive  this  afternoon. 
I  went  about  five  miles  towards  the  one-time 


ARRIVAL  5 

fishing  hamlet  of  'Sconset.  The  perspective 
of  the  long,  yellowish  white  road  was  lost  in 
haze.  To  the  right  the  moors  darkened  into 
an  expanse  of  dwarfed  pines ;  to  the  left  the 
dull  red  of  the  cranberry  bogs  filled  a  great 
hollow,  hundreds  of  acres  in  extent.  On  its 
farthermost  edge  the  blue-gray  smoke  from 
burning  peat-stacks  trailed  with  scarcely  per 
ceptible  motion  out  to  sea. 

As  I  looked,  I  was  aware  of  a  sudden  blur 
ring  of  the  daylight;  without  warning,  a  tidal 
wave  of  fog  rolled  in  from  the  Atlantic.  In 
a  moment  everything  loomed  gigantic;  all 
dimensions  were  indeterminate.  Then  I  felt 
a  cool,  refreshing  moisture  on  my  face,  and  all 
around  and  above  was  blotted  out  save  for  a 
strip  of  the  yellowish  white  road  before  me. 

I  turned  homewards  and  faced  a  blank ; 
only  the  road,  like  the  straight  line  of  duty, 
was  visible  a  little  way  ahead. 

7- 

This  old  house,  gray  and  weather-beaten,  is 
an  architectural  freak.  One  half  of  the  first 


6  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

floor  is  only  one  room  deep,  but  that  depth 
is  fully  forty  feet,  or  rather,  I  may  say,  it  is 
seven  miles  deep  !  For  from  its  four  eastern 
windows  there  is  a  harbor  extension  of  miles 
to  the  "haulover".  As  I  sit  at  the  dining- 
table  I  look  out  and  down  over  gray  roofs, 
huge,  square,  gray  chimneys,  over  marshy 
meadows  bordered  by  a  line  of  young  willows, 
and  between  bites  I  may  see  the  trim  yachts 
at  anchor,  the  old  collier-schooners  making 
slow  sail  to  the  wharves,  the  daily  steamer 
rounding  the  Point,  or  the  fleet  of  fishing  boats 
tacking  irregularly  across  the  Upper  Harbor. 

8. 

Sometimes  I  find  myself  wondering  where 
I  am.  Not  in  America,  I  say  to  myself.  There 
is  more  than  a  hint  of  some  of  the  fishing  vil 
lages  of  the  Scotch  coast  of  the  North  Sea  — 
Newhaven,  for  instance.  It  needs  only  the 
appearance  of  those  transplanted  Scandinavian 
fishwives,  with  their  amplitude  of  short  skirts, 
their  bare  arms  akimbo,  their  creels  of  fish,  to 
convince  me  I  am  far  more  than  thirty  miles 


ARRIVAL  7 

away  from  the  continent  of  America.  What  a 
swing  they  have,  those  fishwives  of  Newhaven  ! 
What  a  superb  carriage  :  head  erect,  shoulders 
and  back  flat,  lithe  hips,  sturdy  calves,  and  a 
stride  of  thirty  inches  !  I  can  hear  their  reso 
nant  voices  crying,  "Caller  herring". 

9- 

I  went  down  town  to-day  to  hire  a  carpenter, 
buy  some  provisions,  make  acquaintance  with 
the  trades-people,  and  try  to  begin  to  feel  at 
home.  And  what  a  town  it  is,  with  its  glint  of 
bright  harbor  waters  down  the  vista  of  the  elm- 
shaded  main  street  that  slopes  to  the  east,  and 
its  magical  moorland  glimpses  from  every  sur 
prising  turn  and  twist  of  lane  and  alley,  of  high 
way,  cliff,  and  shore  ! 

I  must  set  about  making  my  old  house  com 
fortable,  wholly  livable-in,  and  as  lovable  as  I 
can  for  the  long  winter  before  us. 

10. 

It  was  well  for  me  that  a  series  of  south 
west  rain-storms  set  in  last  week,  otherwise 


8  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

this  house  would  not  have  been  settled  for  two 
months. 

My  ample,  forty-foot  living-and-dining-room 
in  one  is  satisfactory.  I  have  lighted  the  fire 
on  the  hearth  this  evening  and  drawn  the  cur 
tains  close.  The  room  has  the  look  of  a  white- 
painted  cabin  of  a  ship.  Near  the  door  that 
opens  into  the  narrow  hall  the  ceiling  is  sup 
ported  by  a  curious  eight-sided  pillar  with  a 
Byzantine  capital  !  Now,  however  did  that 
thought  find  its  way  to  this  particular  house 
on  this  particular  island  ? 

It  looked  familiar.  I  knew  I  had  seen  it 
somewhere  long  before  in  my  mind's  eye;  it 
took  about  the  ten-thousandth  part  of  a  second 
to  place  it.  Elizabeth  of  German  Garden  fame 
reports  one  like  it  in  her  home.  I  have  utilized 
it  by  having  a  few  octagonal  shelves  built  around 
it  for  my  books.  I  unpacked  them  to-day  and 
put  them  in  their  wonted  places.  They  make  a 
brave  showing  and  add  both  cheer  and  color. 
I  say  "wonted"  because  I  always  give  my  books 
congenial  companions. 

This  particular  post-bookrack  is  filled  with 


ARRIVAL  9 

what  appears  to  be  a  hodge-podge  of  lives, 
autobiographies,  poems,  memorials,  letters, 
dramas,  books  of  travel  —  yet  what  good  fel 
lowship  is  among  them  ! 

Ferns  fill  a  western  window;  and  here  and 
there  in  a  window  hanging,  a  chair  cushion,  in 
my  writing-pad,  I  have  added  a  touch  of  color  : 
fine  Venetian  red.  All  about  are  the  things 
—  our  New  England  word  for  special  posses 
sions  —  with  which  I  have  lived  ever  since  I 
knew  the  meaning  of  " things". 

There  is  little  space  on  the  low  walls  for 
my  pictures,  for  the  great  room  has  eleven 
windows  looking  to  the  east,  north,  west,  and 
four  doors,  one  of  which  opens  on  a  large  porch 
facing  the  harbor.  However,  I  have  hung  in 
the  vacant  places  some  old  engravings  which 
have  become  a  part  of  my  life,  —  have,  indeed, 
influenced  it  largely  in  certain  directions  be 
cause  I  have  lived  with  them  since  my  child 
hood.  One,  above  the  narrow  mantel  over 
the  fireplace,  is  the  "Boston  and  its  Harbor", 
the  proof,  from  the  drawing  by  Hill.  It  has 
the  true  Turnerian  atmospheric  effects  in  its 


io  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

skies.  I  can  recall  no  painting  of  town  or 
city  in  foreign  lands  one  half  as  beautiful  to  me 
as  this  picture,  not  even  Vermeer's  "View  of 
Delft"  in  the  Mauritshuis  at  the  Hague;  for, 
beyond  the  harbor,  it  shows  me  the  city  of  my 
birth,  the  familiar  spires  of  Park  Street  and  the 
Old  South,  of  the  Old  North  Church  and,  across 
the  Charles,  the  shaft  of  Bunker  Hill.  It  is 
all  my  own,  my  Boston ;  therefore  I  love  it. 
Beneath  it  on  the  same  narrow  mantel  are  my 
"Carlyle  ivies". 

And  here  I  sit  in  the  lamplight  and  firelight, 
thirty  miles  at  sea,  happily  idle  for  a  time, 
listening  to  the  rush  of  rain  against  the  windows 
and  to  the  beneficent  winds  from  the  Atlantic, 
moisture-laden,  that,  bearing  in  from  their 
wide  ocean  haunts,  seem  to  cut  great  swaths  of 
sound  in  their  sweep  over  the  moors. 


II 


BY   WIRELESS 

* 

IT  clears  tardily  after  the  week  of  rain  and 
fog.  From  an  old  churchyard  on  the  moors 
I  watched  to-night  for  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
An  unbroken  wall  of  slate-colored  cloud  rounded 
the  horizon  and  extended  nearly  to  the  zenith. 
The  moors  lay  dark  beneath  it;  no  shifting 
line  of  light,  no  ray  of  brightness  anywhere 
visible.  There  was  no  wind.  Suddenly,  with 
out  the  herald  of  a  change,  in  the  horizon's 
west,  the  dark  gray  cloud-postern  burned  as 
with  the  incandescent  head  of  a  huge  battering- 
ram,  and  the  sun,  vastly  dilated,  distorted, 
glowed  rayless  in  the  breach  for  the  space  of 
ten  seconds  as  it  sank. 

That  cloud-wall  reflected  no  more  light  than 
if  it  had  been  made  of  asphalt.  I  could  but 

ii 


12  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

wonder  if  its  breadth  extended  halfway  to  the 
Bahamas,  if  its  depth  touched  the  rarefied 
regions  of  the  upper  air. 

The  dusk  fell ;  it  seemed  only  the  engulfing 
of  day  in  that  cloud.  In  the  moorland  bury- 
ing-ground  the  ancient  headstones,  aslant, 
showed  ghostly  gray. 

As  I  turned  homewards  I  caught  a  wireless 
message  from  over  the  ocean.  Clear  and 
definite  it  was,  for  in  the  darkness  the  trans 
mission  is  better  than  by  daylight.  I  inter 
preted  and  visualized  it.  The  time,  the  place, 
started  the  current ;  in  the  fractional  part  of  a 
second  I  am  afar  —  in  Italy ;  in  Florence,  on 
the  hill  overlooking  it,  by  the  church  of  San 
Miniato,  just  at  sunset,  among  the  many  graves 
in  the  long  grass. 

Beneath  me  lies  the  beloved  City  deep  in 
the  chalice  of  the  surrounding  hills  touched  at 
the  moment  with  amethyst ;  its  dome,  turrets, 
bell-towers,  upreaching  from  the  purple  mists 
of  Arno  like  the  exquisite  pistil  and  stamens  of 
a  flower. 

The  old  church  and  the  hill  whereon  it  stands 


BY  WIRELESS  13 

are  still  radiant  in  the  light  of  the  sun  just  sink 
ing  below  the  horizon.  The  graves  are  half 
hidden  among  the  long  grass  that  undulates 
softly  in  the  gentle  but  steady  wind.  On  each 
grave  is  a  tiny  lantern.  I  wait  there  till  they 
are  lighted,  a  few  minutes  after  sundown.  Oh, 
those  many,  many  little  grave-lights  on  the  hill 
of  San  Miniato  !  How  they  twinkle  and  flash 
from  their  lowly  quiet  among  the  waving  grass 
as  the  breeze  swings  them  to  and  fro  !  To  me, 
they  are  like  the  happy  greetings  of  earth- 
revisiting  souls.  I  know  they  will  twinkle  there 
till  Mount  Morello  shall  herald  the  coming  dawn. 

The  sudden  clash  and  clang  of  a  hundred 
bells  breaks  the  evening  quiet,  up-pealing  so 
insouciantly  —  there  is  no  other  word  for  the 
manner  of  their  ringing  —  to  the  darkening 
heights.  Those  garrulous  brazen  tongues  never 
let  us  forget  where  we  are :  in  Italy.  .  .  . 

Their  echoes  had  scarcely  ceased  as  I  entered 
the  town  again  and  heard  the  old  Portuguese 
bell  in  the  tower  of  the  South  Church  on  Orange 
Street  striking  seven  and  calling  me  —  home. 

Yes;    Italy  is  one  of  the  great  passions  of 


14  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

life.  It  is  full  of  effulgent  heights,  mist-filled 
depths,  ecstasy  of  unrest,  subduing  charm,  all- 
abandoning  devotion.  Its  spell  is  binding  even 
in  absence. 

And  what  a  contrast  is  this  little  gray  town 
afar  on  the  island  outpost  of  our  United  States  ! 
Its  windows  overlook  the  billowing  moors  and 
the  infinite-reaching  wastes  of  the  Atlantic. 
How  it  draws,  draws  quietly,  insistently,  irre 
sistibly  to  the  low  hearthstones  and  open 
fires  in  its  homes  both  humble  and  stately. 
How  it  attracts  with  the  enduring  power  of  a 
lifelong  wedded  love  that  finds  at  the  fireside 
of  home  its  necessary  sustenance;  seeks  there 
its  refuge ;  finds  there  —  sanctuary. 

Now,  at  nine,  even  while  I  am  writing,  the 
old  Portuguese  bell  is  ringing  curfew.  I'll 
match  its  tone  against  the  best  in  Europe.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  been  out  on  the  porch  to  listen  and 
watch  in  the  blackness  of  this  dark  night.  I 
heard  the  continuous  tolling  of  the  bell  on  the 
buoy  beyond  the  jetties.  I  watched  the  con 
tinuous  wax  and  wane  of  the  great  beacon  light 
miles  away  across  the  moors  on  Sankaty  Head. 


BY  WIRELESS  15 

2. 

I've  been  thinking  about  those  "earth-revisit 
ing  souls"  and  their  "happy  greetings"  I  men 
tioned.  I  certainly  did  not  write  that  as  a 
figure  of  speech.  They  really  seemed  such  to 
me  at  that  time. 

I  recall,  however,  one  special  visit  to  the 
Medici  Chapel,  where  my  thought  was  quite 
otherwise  in  the  presence  of  the  Master's  works  : 
the  titanic  Twilight,  Dawn,  Night,  and  the 
unfinished  Day.  And  I  wonder,  recalling  that 
visit  —  I  wonder,  and  I  wonder ;  and,  with  all 
my  wondering,  being  no  nearer  to  any  satis 
faction,  I  have  imagined  Michael  Angelo  revis 
iting  that  same  Medici  Chapel  three  hundred 
years  after  his  death  to  see  his  unfinished  work. 

And  now  I  find  myself  wondering  again  if  by 
any  possibility  I  may  have  imagined  rightly  ?  — 

IN  THE  MEDICI  CHAPEL  AT  TWILIGHT 
Michael  Angelo  loquitur. 

What !     Sleeping  still, 

Mute,  pallid  offspring  of  my  art  ?    The  Chapel's  dim, 
I  scarce  know  them  apart ;   but,  by  the  turn  of  limb, 


16  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

I'm  sure  the  Night  is  here  and  over  there  the  Dawn. 
(My  marble  poppies  —  potent  charm  !)     Three  centuries 

gone 
And  Italy,  they  say,  reborn  ! 

Still  waking,  Day, 

As  ever  and  for  always  to  new  greed  for  gain  ? 
To  strife  for  rights  ?  —  Chimera  of  a  dullard's  brain  ! 
We  both  —  mark  well  —  have  wrestled   with  the  thing 

called  Fame 

As  Jacob  with  the  angel  till  it  —  shall  I  tell  ?  — 
Had  like  to  prove  a  blessed  curse  that  smacked  of  hell. 

Imprisoned  Day,  thou'rt  still  in  thine  unfinished  strength ; 
As  yet  no  master's  hand  hath  given  these  limbs  repose. 
Can  it  be  true  that  after  me  —  be  humble,  Heart !  — 
Not  one  has   dared   to  shape  this   rugged,   rough-hewn 

length  ? 

And  does  this  prove  that  only  he  may  reap  who  sows, 
Though  centuries  intervene  ?     I  speak  as  one  who  knows. 
Earth-memories  stir  within  me  but  to  bring  earth-pain. 
Yea,  Heaven  is  Heaven ;   alas,  I  know  that  all  full  well ; 
But  earth,  my  earth,  and  life  and  love,  and  art,  my  art  — 
O  God,  that  I  might  live  again  ! 

No  solution  —  this. 

3- 

I  am  reading  the  "Memorials  of  Edward 
Burne- Jones".  I  like  group  reading.  Some 
books  induce  it.  I  know  I  shall  reach  out 


BY  WIRELESS  17 

through  this  to  so  many  of  his  time  —  Morris, 
Rossetti,  Carlyle  and  Ruskin,  dear  old  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini,  Malory  and  Fiona  Macleod. 

This  book,  for  instance,  is  like  the  central 
sun  of  some  great  nebula ;  the  central  thought 
surrounds  itself  at  once  with  groups  of  associated 
beauty  as  it  is  conceived  in  all  the  arts,  in  life, 
and  letters. 

I  have  laid  the  book  aside  for  a  few  minutes, 
taken  my  writing-pad,  and  am  jotting  down, 
just  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  the  readings 
from  the  waves  of  my  wireless,  induced  by  a 
half  hour  spent  with  this  book. 

Thomas  Carlyle  is  mentioned  with  loving 
reference,  —  Carlyle,  for  many  years  my  priest 
and  prophet.  I  look  at  his  ivies  in  their  clay 
pots  on  the  narrow  shelf  above  the  fireplace. 
They  are  as  green  and  thrifty  as  if  they  had  never 
been  transplanted  from  their  native  soil  in  that 
small  backyard  —  it  is  nothing  more  pretentious 
than  that  —  of  a  certain  old  house  in  Cheyne 
Row  in  Chelsea  Town.  Carlyle's  ivies,  their 
roots  mulched  and  watered,  perhaps,  by  the 
Sage  when  he  and  Tennyson,  those  two  Niagaras 


i8  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

of  prose  and  poetry,  sat  speechless,  pipe  in  mouth, 
in  that  same  backyard  one  summer  night,  and 
at  parting  congratulated  themselves  on  the 
pleasant  evening  they  had  passed  together  ! 

Yes,  they  are  thriving  here  on  this  island  in 
the  Atlantic.  They  have  suffered  no  sea  change ; 
every  leaf  recalls  the  unpretentious  house  and 
my  pilgrimage  to  it.  I  went  as  to  a  Mecca. 

There  is  mention,  also,  of  the  portrait  of 
Gladstone's  baby  grandchild;  and  again  my 
wireless  is  at  work. 

I  am  in  Hawarden  Church,  looking  at  the 
Burne- Jones  memorial  window.  Some  laborers 
are  digging  in  the  churchyard ;  a  mason  is  at 
work  resetting  some  stones  in  the  chancel. 
The  sky  is  overcast.  I  see  the  sign  of  the  old 
hostelry,  the  Glynn  Arms,  swinging  in  the  high 
wind.  I  see  the  curving,  gray,  village  street, 
typical  of  Wales,  and,  as  I  take  my  stand  at  its 
farther  end,  by  the  ancient  pump  beneath  an 
ivy-draped  garden  wall,  I  see  a  girl  swing  past 
on  her  bicycle.  She  is  bareheaded;  the  long, 
bright  curls  are  tossed  on  the  wind.  Her  face 
is  like  those  of  which  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brother- 


BY  WIRELESS  19 

hood  dreamed  in  order  to  visualize  and  im 
mortalize. 

Afterwards  I  find  it  reproduced  in  one  of  the 
tiny  shop  windows  hard  by  the  inn,  and  I  know 
it  to  be  that  of  the  Master  of  Hawarden's 
granddaughter  —  a  face  which,  had  Burne- 
Jones  known  it  in  its  blossoming  womanhood, 
would  have  enriched  the  world  of  art  through 
the  medium  of  another  of  his  incomparable 
angels. 

I  am  in  the  Glynn  Arms,  ordering  tea  and 
toast  and  the  inn's  best  jam.  I  shall  never 
taste  its  like  again ;  I  have  tried  in  vain  to 
imitate  it  here  at  home.  It  was,  rather,  a 
plum  conserve  and  delectable  with  crisp,  hot 
toast.  I  am  sitting  in  the  low,  dark-ceiled 
front  room,  listening  to  the  scurrying  wind  till 
the  light  begins  to  fade  through  the  low  case 
ment.  .  .  . 

I  am  thinking  now  of  that  late  afternoon, 
the  ancient,  gray  Welsh  village,  the  fading 
light,  the  clouded  sky;  and  I  see  but  one  ray 
of  brightness  in  all  of  it  —  the  wholly  radiant 
face  of  that  girl. 


20  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

OCTOBER. 

I  like  to  explore  this  old  town  when  it  is  en 
wrapped  in  light  mists.  There  is  no  fog.  The 
water  is  visible,  but  softly  veiled.  Every  out 
line  of  hull  and  rigging,  of  wharf  and  ware 
house,  of  shore  and  lighthouse  is  softened.  Of 
angles  there  are  none.  Every  lane  has  its  dim 
perspective;  every  road  its  charmingly  indefi 
nite  limitations  of  turning.  Either  nothing 
leaves  off  where  everything  begins,  or  all  objects 
are  mere  suggestions  where  they  should  be  defi 
nite  somethings.  Everywhere  there  is  pleas 
ing  vagueness,  but  never  vacuity. 

5- 

I  was  walking  in  an  unexplored  south  quarter 
of  the  town  when  I  came  upon  a  road  that, 
apparently,  ended  on  an  upland  of  the  moors, 
and  crowning  the  grass  slope  was  the  old  wind 
mill  in  the  mist,  gray  in  gray.  There  was  no 
movement  about  or  above  me,  on  the  ground  or 
in  the  air;  neither  bird  nor  beast  was  abroad 
at  that  moment,  in  that  place.  There  was 


BY  WIRELESS  21 

only  the  mist,  and  the  mill,  and  the  climbing 
moorland  road  and  I  alone  in  it. 

I  held  my  breath  for  an  instant  that  the  silent 
charm  might  not  be  broken ;  that  another 
vision,  which  the  sensitive  brain  films  had  kept 
intact  for  this  hour,  this  minute,  this  infini 
tesimal  part  of  a  second,  might  materialize  in 
thought.  Oh,  the  marvellous  law  of  associa 
tion  and  its  results  !  On  my  retina  was  the 
image  of  the  old  Nantucket  windmill  in  the 
mist  —  that  and  the  climbing  road.  And  simul 
taneously  with  the  striking  of  the  waves  of 
reflected  light  on  the  sensitive  nerves,  the 
message  went  forth  through  the  million  intricate 
brain  cells,  and  lo  !  —  I  am  aware  of  another 
windmill  in  the  mist,  but  afar  on  the  coast  of 
France,  on  the  shores  of  Boulogne.  I  see  it 
between  two  dim  uplands,  and  it  crowns  the 
whitish  gray  road  that  climbs  between  them. 
So  I  saw  it  seven  years  ago. 

6. 

Heigh-ho  for  the  salt  island-marshes ! 
Heigh-ho  for  the  salt  winds  that  are  sweeping 


22  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

over   them !     And   hey   for   the   salt-hay-laden 
wains  and  the  horses  straining  to  their  task  ! 

I  have  been  on  the  point  all  this  afternoon, 
on  a  level  with  the  sea  and  the  wondrous- 
tinted  marshes  that  it  feeds.  I  have  been 
watching  the  hay-making  on  the  salt  meadows ; 
watching  the  incoming  tide  slowly  fill  the  little 
creeks  till  they  gleamed  all  rounded,  sinuous, 
jewelled  as  with  chrysoprase,  jasper,  topaz, 
in  their  deep  setting  of  reeds.  Wireless  again. 
For  at  sight  of  the  eel  grass  and  the  slowly 
filling  creeks,  I  am  a  child  once  more  and  dis 
covering  the  wonderland  of  Cape  Cod. 

} 
7- 

On  a  lift  of  the  moors  just  beyond  the  old 
windmill  are  some  ancient  thorn  trees.  This 
evening,  after  the  sun  set  clear,  cloudless,  and 
before  the  earth  shadow  fell,  the  horizon  where 
the  moors  seam  it  with  purple  was  defined  by  a 
broad  zone  of  red  gold,  flawless  as  the  ancient 
priceless  lacquer  of  Japan.  Against  it  my 
three  thorn  trees,  gnarled,  wind-bent,  every 
branch  and  twig  weirdly  reticulated,  stood  out- 


BY  WIRELESS  23 

lined  in  black.  —  Why  do  I  need  to  see  Japan 

after  this  ? 

8. 

There  is  no  use  in  my  attempting  to  finish 
settling  the  house  in  such  weather.  Yesterday 
an  old  trustworthy  horse  and  I  rambled  over 
eastwards  ;  rambled  is  the  word,  for  we  wandered 
hither  and  thither,  through  and  around,  and, 
finally,  over  Saul's  Hills  —  the  section  of  the 
island  lying  between  the  harbor  and  Sankaty 
Head. 

Hills,  moors,  ocean  lay  open  to  the  October 
sun.  A  pond  gleamed  like  an  opal  in  the  deep 
hollow  of  the  moors,  the  motionless  waters 
reflecting  the  brilliant  red  of  huckleberry  bushes, 
the  brown-green  of  the  bayberry,  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky,  and  one  tiny  cloud-plume. 

As  I  came  out  on  Sankaty  Head  I  faced  — 
Eternity. 

The  sunshine  was  that  bottled  vintage  of 
mid-summer  which  nature  lays  aside  for  three 
months,  only  to  pour  out  in  libation  as  a  mellow 
golden  cordial  on  just  such  an  October  day. 
The  sun  had  wheeled  a  degree  from  the  meridian. 


24  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

In  the  south  the  ocean  lay  pale,  blue,  clear,  to 
the  horizon's  rim ;  but  eastwards  and  before 
me  —  what  was  before  me  ?  I  cannot  tell.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  having  one  long, 
long  look  into  that  Mystery  of  Mysteries  in 
which  all  life  lives,  moves,  and  has  its  being; 
into  which  we  humans  gaze  with  straining  eyes, 
mutely  questioning;  through  which  we,  the 
Unknowing,  pass  with  faltering  sight  into  the 
Unknown. 

I  stood  on  the  very  edge  of  the  high  head  and 
gazed  long  into  the  fathomless,  translucent 
mist  of  tenderest  blue  that  lay  upon  an  ocean  of 
constantly  changing,  but  veiled  cerulean.  This 
marvellous  mist  veiled  yet  revealed,  was  pene 
trable  but  baffling;  it  secreted,  yet  divulged. 
There  was  no  dividing  line  of  color  to  mark 
sea,  atmosphere,  or  sky.  Mist,  water,  and  firma 
ment  blended  with  such  ethereal  gradations 
of  tints  and  to  such  wonderful  depths  above, 
beneath,  and  before  me,  that  the  mere  physical 
reception  of  the  reflected  light-waves,  in  their 
soft  intensity,  produced  a  sensuous  joy  as  well 
as  a  spiritual  exaltation. 


BY  WIRELESS  25 

And  here  again  the  wireless  of  the  brain  was 
at  work.  As  I  marvelled  at  that  color,  I  saw 
in  it  the  wondrous  blue  of  the  Alpine  gentian 
I  picked  years  ago  from  beside  the  snows  on 
the  pass  of  the  Simplon.  I  heard  the  surging 
elemental  waves  of  harmony  in  the  overture  to 
Wagner's  "Rhinegold".  I  caught  one  chord, 
distinctly,  from  MacDowelPs  "Mid-Ocean"  — 
and  I  saw  the  reed-measured  sapphire  of  the 
foundation  of  the  new  City  of  God. 

And  that  which  lay  before  me  symbolized  to 
me  the  creative  power  that  has  made  these 
five  things  possible. 

Oh,  what  are  words  !  Mere  blasphemies  for 
such  an  experience,  for  such  a  day.  .  .  . 


Ill 


BEACH    PLUM    JELLY   AND    SOME    PRACTICAL 
DEDUCTIONS 

I. 

I  MADE  some  beach  plum  jelly  this  morning; 
it  is  the  thing  to  do  at  this  season  in  Nantucket. 
It  was  a  failure.  Although  it  was  firm  and  clear 
the  taste  was  not  right.  I  must  try  again. 

I  wonder  how  women  get  on  who  have  not 
these  common  things  of  life  to  interest  them  ? 

Making  jellies  and  jams,  preserving  and  pic 
kling,  is  a  process  always  stimulating  to  me  —  I 
ought  to  add  when  it  does  not  prove  dishearten 
ing  as  in  the  present  case.  There  is  always 
the  delightful  factor  of  chance  in  it;  the  "turn 
ing  out  well"  is  a  real  cause  for  rejoicing; 
the  failure  is,  of  course,  a  proportionate  dis 
appointment,  and  failure  with  things  that  are 
of  the  "earth  earthy"  is  so  deadening  to  the 
spirit ! 

26 


BEACH  PLUM  JELLY  AND  DEDUCTIONS    27 

It  is  really  remarkable  the  total  depravity, 
at  times,  of  concurrent  circumstance  when  I 
am  preserving  —  peaches,  for  instance.  Now 
putting  up  peaches  looks  on  the  surface  to  be  an 
ordinary  and  one-sided  operation,  voted  pro 
saic  by  a  host  of  women ;  but  viewed  from  the 
various  points  of  the  weather  status,  of  growth, 
quality,  distance  from  orchards,  venalities  of 
marketmen  and  shippers  (oh,  that  deceptive 
red  netting !),  express  companies,  and  one's 
own  mood  at  the  time  of  preserving,  it  becomes 
a  curiously  complex  aifair. 

Sometimes  when  a  guest  sits  at  my  table  in 
mid-winter,  enjoying  those  same  peaches  with 
a  "topping" — our  New  England  word  —  of 
whipped  cream  and  expressing  satisfaction  with 
the  dish,  I  think  to  myself  : 

"Little  you  are  realizing  what  goes  to  the  mak 
ing  of  these  delectables  !  —  sun,  rain,  the  dropped 
kernel,  the  earth-mother  with  her  'will  to  yield  ', 
the  tending  by  human  hands,  the  watching  by 
human  eyes  for  cloud  or  clearing  and  the  fore 
cast  of  weather  bureau;  the  kindling  of  bon 
fires  if  the  frost  fall ;  the  careful  picking,  selec- 


28  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

tion,  packing,  shipping;  the  sea  voyage  to  this 
distant  island ;  the  sorting  and  paring ;  the 
making  of  syrup  from  the  largess  of  the  fields  of 
Louisiana,  Hawaii,  or  the  distant  Philippines ; 
the  testing,  doing,  tasting;  the  sterilizing  of 
jars,  and,  at  last,  the  sealing!"  All  these 
processes  are  the  factors  in  the  making  of  my 
two  dozen  jars  of  peach  preserve  plus  the  day's 
mood  of  the  woman  who  is  "doing  them  up" 
and  the  state  of  the  weather. 

With  all  this  interweaving  of  elements  and 
mechanics,  there  is  always  the  possibility  of  an 
infinitesimal  mould-growth  —  enfant  du  diable 
for  us  housekeepers  —  to  ruin  all  my  first  at 
tempt,  and  the  woful  prospect  of  my  having  to 
"do  them  over",  a  very  penance  for  my  house 
wife's  soul.  Well,  if  my  guest,  man  or  woman, 
say  five  months  afterwards,  "How  delicious!" 
I  have  my  reward. 

2. 

Ah,  these  common  things  of  life !  What 
balance,  what  poise  they  give  us  when  we  are 
forced  to  breast  alone  the  overwhelming  flood 
of  adverse  circumstance !  Who  shall  say  what 


BEACH  PLUM  JELLY  AND  DEDUCTIONS    29 

thoughts,  what  high  resolves,  what  memories, 
what  dogged  persistence  in  undertaking,  what 
courage  of  the  pour-on-I-will-endure  kind,  what 
undaunted  valor  of  soul  that  endures  the  gnawing 
and  tearing  of  physical  pain  at  the  very  vitals, 
are  component  parts  of  these  myriad  common 
things  of  life  that  go  to  the  making  of  the  normal 
whole  ? 

How  many  indignant  protests  against  tyranny 
in  the  home  and  injustice  from  the  world  in 
general  have  women  kneaded  into  bread  ?  How 
many  sorrows,  how  many  joys,  are  set  with  every 
stitch  of  a  mother's  sewing  ?  How  many  curses, 
solid  if  harmless,  are  nailed  fast  upon  some 
unsuspecting  offender  with  every  tack  a  house 
keeper  puts  into  an  old  "turned"  carpet? 
How  many  cobwebs  of  the  brain  are  cleared 
away  with  the  sweeping  of  a  room  ?  Only 
women  can  tell,  and  preeminently  those  women 
who  know  from  experience  the  everlasting  sal 
vation  latent  in  just  the  common  things  of  life. , 

And  of  the  women  who  do  not  know  them,  or, 
knowing,  ignore  their  existence,  ignore  the  fact 
that  they  have  been,  are,  and  always  will  be  living 


30  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

daily  benefactions,  physical,  moral,  spiritual  ? 
There  is  little  to  be  said,  for  the  result  is  ever 
before  our  eyes.  Nature's  law  of  compensation 
works  through  these  common  things  of  life ; 
to  ignore  them,  to  cease  to  make  ourselves  one 
with  them,  is  to  invite  disaster. 

"Occupation  treatment"  whereby  men  and 
women  are  set  to  work  that  the  lost  balance  may 
be,  if  possible,  restored  —  this  obtains  every 
where  in  our  present  times.  That  which  in 
the  following  of  a  great  natural  law  keeps  life 
at  the  normal  is  now  artificially  reproduced,  in 
order  to  induce  the  same  result  in  the  abnormal 
cases  that  are  multiplying  because  of  the  igno 
rance  of  just  these  common  things  of  life. 

Yes,  set  to  work  ;  and  we  find  men  and  women 
weaving  on  hand-looms  as  of  old;  we  find  men 
and  women  chopping  wood,  like  the  pioneers 
of  old;  we  see  men  and  women  working  in  clay, 
making  pottery  like  all  primitive  peoples. 

If  this  be  not  a  signpost  for  future  generations 
then  he  who  runs  and  does  not  read  is  blind. 

They  are  a  part  of  our  commonwealth,  this 
wealth  which  you  and  I  and  all  those  who  have 


BEACH  PLUM  JELLY  AND  DEDUCTIONS    31 

two  eyes  with  which  to  see,  two  ears  with  which 
to  hear,  who  have  smell,  touch,  taste,  hold  in 
common.  Through  each  sense  we  own  a  world, 
a  wonder-world.  Yet  men  and  women,  un 
heeding  the  richness  of  such  possessions,  dare 
call  themselves  "poor"  because,  forsooth,  they 
have  no  strong  box  filled  with  gilt-edged  securi 
ties  ! 

There  is  need  for  a  readjustment  of  the  terms 
of  life,  not  philosophy,  in  this  our  generation. 
There  is  need  for  a  readjustment  of  values ; 
for  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a  physical  revaluation 
of  our  possessions  in  this  America  of  ours. 
We  are  met  at  every  turn,  in  every  phase  of 
our  national  life,  with  the  material  fact  of  "riches 
versus  wealth"  and  the  consequent  confusion 
of  standards.  We  need  standards  that  shall 
be  recognized  by  every  eye  and,  what  is  more, 
we  need  standard-bearers.  This  is  the  great 
spiritual  need  of  our  times. 

3- 

My  beach  plum  jelly  having  proved  a  dismal 
failure,  I  betook  myself  this  afternoon  westward 


32  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

to  Maddequet  where,  I  am  told,  they  grow 
abundantly. 

Westward  to  Maddequet  with  the  sun  still 
high  in  the  heavens  !  And  how  far  toward 
Maddequet  did  I  get  in  this  shining  October 
weather  ?  I  wandered  hither  and  thither  and 
yon  and,  at  last,  mounted  a  swell  of  the  moors  to 
look  about  me  — 

Were  you  ever  on  the  coast  of  Sicily  beyond 
Messina  ? 

On  my  right  was  the  pond,  Wannacomet,  a 
sparkling  pale  blue,  like  the  Montana  sapphire. 
Before  me  lay  Capaum  among  the  low  dunes 
splotched  with  masses  of  bayberry  and  gray 
moss ;  by  some  trick  of  reflected  light  its  color 
at  that  moment  was  amethyst.  The  long 
irregular  line  of  coast,  white  with  bleached 
hummock  grass,  gleamed  sharply  against  the 
dark  blue  waters  of  the  Sound. — No  picking  of 
beach  plums  to-day  ! 

Through  my  two  eyes  of  what  unexpected 
wealth  have  I  recently  come  into  possession  : 
this  billowing  moorland  sea  lying  soundless 
beneath  the  brilliant  sunshine  of  late  October  ! 


BEACH  PLUM  JELLY  AND  DEDUCTIONS    33 

They  fascinate  me  —  these  moors.  They  are 
unlike  any  I  have  seen  :  the  Liineburg  Heath, 
the  dunes  of  Holland,  or  Cape  Cod,  the  country 
west  of  Cleve,  the  Scotch  moors ;  these  have 
undeniable  charm,  but  not  that  of  the  Nan- 
tucket  moorlands. 


IV 


ROOTS,    SUBSOIL,    AND    LANDED    ESTATES 
I. 

A  CHARMING  woman  of  seventy-six,  a  gentle 
woman  of  the  old  school  (the  "new  school" 
will  produce  what  at  seventy-six  ?  I  can  but 
wonder),  was  one  of  the  first  to  call  on  me  and 
bid  me  welcome  to  her  island.  I  write  "her" 
advisedly,  for  she  was  born  here  as  were  her 
father  and  father's  fathers  to  the  sixth  genera 
tion.  She  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  island  as 
are  its  moors. 

I  met  her  afterwards  in  her  own  house,  one 
of  the  island's  stately  homes,  a  fit  setting  for 
its  mistress.  She  spoke  of  her  father  and 
mother  and  showed  me  their  portraits ;  then 
she  brought  to  my  notice  a  large  photograph 
of  an  old  English  house  in  one  of  the  Channel 
coast  counties.  "I  was  born  at  Z ,"  she 

34 


ROOTS,  SUBSOIL,  AND  LANDED  ESTATES    35 

said,  mentioning  one  of  the  old  island  families, 
"and  I  trace  my  descent  in  a  straight  line  for 
a  thousand  years  from  the  original  owners  of 
this  manor." 

The  statement  was  an  astounding  one  to  me. 
A  thousand  years  !  I  made  no  answer.  I  was 
not  capable  of  a  fitting  one  at  that  moment. 
I  was  prepared  for  a  Revolutionary  ancestry, 
for  one  dating  from  the  Mayflower,  the  old 
Colony  days,  or  from  Huguenot,  Dutch,  or 
Spaniard,  what  you  will  among  our  heteroge 
neous  pioneers  —  but  a  thousand  years  ! 

Why,  Norman  William  had  not  then  set  foot 
on  that  other  island  across  the  ocean,  Leif 
Ericsson  made  no  voyage  to  Vinland.  The 
sequoias  of  the  Sierras  were  still  in  their  first 
prime  and  standing  sentinel  over  an  undis 
covered  continent.  The  great  Saxon  Alfred 
was  a  contemporary  of  her  many  times  removed 
grandfathers  !  And  here  before  me  in  the 
flesh,  on  a  bit  of  terminal  moraine  of  the  last 
great  ice-sheet,  —  the  island  of  Nantucket,  — 
left  like  a  footprint  of  the  aeons  on  half-sub 
merged  shoals,  stood  loyal  and  sincere,  this 


36  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

blue-eyed,  rosy-cheeked,  seventy-six-year-old 
descendant  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  confronting 
me  —  of  To-day  —  with  her  thousand  years  of 
ancestry  ! 

For  the  space  of  a  minute,  Columbus  seemed 
of  recent  birth ;  then  I  was  aware  that  she  was 
speaking  again : 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  proud  of  such  a 
lineage  ?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not,"  I  answered  heartily. 
She  deserved  indulgence,  as  do  all  of  us  when 
we  are  given  insight  that,  in  a  way,  we  are 
what  we  are  by  reason  of  what  untold  genera 
tions  once  were. 

2. 

I  laughed  a  little  under  my  breath  at  this 
harmless  ancestor  worship  as  I  walked  slowly 
homewards  in  the  November  twilight,  a  twilight 
entirely  at  variance  with  our  accepted  New 
England  standard  of  the  drear,  dull  closing 
of  late  November  days.  A  golden  afterglow 
was  lingering  beyond  the  moors,  and  against 
it  my  "Corot"  trees  —  so  I  call  the  four  noble 
elms  on  the  upland  slope  of  lawn  at  the  head 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED   ESTATES     37 

of  Liberty  Street  —  were  etched  in  intricate, 
interlacing  curves.  All  about  me  were  lawns 
as  fresh  as  in  June,  hedges  as  sturdily  green, 
rich  banks  of  dark  glossy  ivy  and  high  brick 
garden  walls  behung  thickly  with  it.  Here 
and  there  a  rose  blossomed  over  a  trellised 
porch.  The  wind  was  from  the  south ;  it 
brought  to  me  the  sound  of  the  surf  breaking 
on  the  South  Shore. 

3- 

If  I  laughed  to  myself  while  walking  home 
in  the  luminous  twilight,  I  was  laughing  at 
myself  and  my  own  need  of  indulgence  along 
certain  ancestral  lines. 

It  is  not  generally  known,  even  among  my 
intimates,  that  I  am  an  extensive  landed  pro 
prietor.  My  estates  are  many,  of  great  in 
trinsic  value.  jTheir  revenues,  although  fluctu 
ating  at  certain  periods,  are  enormous.  In  these 
days  of  the  new  income  tax  inquisition,  when 
that  which  is  secret  shall  be  laid  bare  under 
oath,  it  may  be  well  to  antedate  official  inquiry 
and  make  here  and  now  semi-official  statement 


38  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

of  their  value.  I  am  wondering  how  my  Gov 
ernment  will  deal  with  the  revenues  from  my 
landed  properties  ? 

One  of  my  estates  is  duly  entered  in  the  town 
registry;  a  fourth  of  an  acre,  rather  "less" 
than  "more", —  in  reality  it  is  nothing  more 
than  a  "back  yard",  —  on  this  windswept 
island.  But  this  record  is  misleading  for  I  am 
a  large  landed  proprietor  in  the  true  meaning 
of  that  term. 

I  never  knew  I  had  so  many  grandfathers, 
so  many  grandmothers,  so  many  uncles  and 
aunts  as  collaterals,  until  I  was  invited  to  in 
vestigate  myself  in  detail  through  my  forbears 
in  order  that  I  might  be  eligible  to  the  "Colonial 
Dames",  for  which  society,  by  the  way,  I  have 
never  qualified.  Of  course,  I  knew  in  a  general 
way  that  to  the  fourth  and  fifth  generation  I 
had  had  grandfathers ;  in  fact,  knew  their 
names.  An  inheritance  of  nearly  three  centuries 
in  the  soil  of  Massachusetts  —  to  be  exact, 
three  hundred  years  in  1923  —  is  productive 
naturally  of  a  large  crop  of  ancestors.  Behind 
that  there  are  six  centuries  of  English  ancestry 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED   ESTATES     39 

as,  of  course,  there  are  for  every  one  of  our  many 
millions  of  English  descent. 

I  confess  the  mere  thought  of  these  thousands 
of  grandfathers  is  overwhelming,  and  were  it 
not  for  the  tangibility  of  some  of  their  estates 
it  would  be  unbearable  and  not  conducive  to 
lucidity.  Think  of  them  as  they  stand  in 
written  record  :  tanners,  fishermen,  mill-owners, 
men  of  landed  estates,  —  "gentlemen"  so  called, 
—  lawyers,  farmers,  doctors,  warriors  of  high 
degree,  servants,  sheriffs,  governors,  soldiers, 
"goodmen",  "misters",  yeomen,  and  sailors. 
This  is  a  prototype  of  the  ancestry  of  millions 
who  now  inherit  our  America :  men  good,  bad, 
indifferent,  in  the  usual  proportion ;  poor,  rich, 
or  in  that  blessed  class  that  has  neither  too 
much  nor  too  little.  Each  man  filled  his  little 
space  of  time  in  this  world  with  whatsoever  he 
had  of  sufficient  backbone  to  produce,  whether 
of  good  or  ill  to  his  fellow-men.  And  all,  to 
day,  are  an  integral  part  of  the  earth-mother 
which  undeniable  fact  establishes  once  for  all 
our  common  heritage. 

With  this  fact  hourly  in  evidence,  it  seems  a 


40  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

pity  to  lose  two  thirds  of  the  satisfaction  of 
actual  living  by  attempting  to  confine  our  in 
dividual  humanness  within  prescribed  ancestral 
lines.  Life  is  not  long  enough  to  stand  on 
ceremony  with  ourselves  and  other  humans  on 
account  of  ancestors.  There  are  so  many  of 
them  for  each  of  us  ! 

I  hold  my  estates  from  these  ancestors  in  fee 
simple.  They  are  mine  by  reason  of  the  work 
ings  of  that  wonderful  law :  the  primogeniture 
of  the  imagination  which  blessed  inheritance 
the  thousands  of  dead  ancestors  have  contrived, 
by  a  combining,  selecting,  refining,  eliminating 
process,  to  hand  down  here  to  me  very  much 
alive  in  this  twentieth  century. 

These  small,  gray,  shingled  houses,  on  this 
island,  for  instance;  the  wells,  pumps,  latch- 
strings,  circular  cellars ;  the  salt  marshes,  wil 
lows,  eels,  eel-grass,  clams,  quahaugs,  even  the 
windmill  —  they  are  as  familiar  to  me  as  if  I  had 
lived  with  them  all  my  life ;  for  they  recall  that 
other  ancestral  life  on  the  queer,  physical  con 
figuration  of  the  south  coast  of  my  native  state, 
that  wonderful  "sand-spit":  short  upper  arm, 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED   ESTATES    41 

sharp  elbow,  long  forearm,  and  fist  doubled  with 
downward  pointing  thumb  like  the  Roman 
thumb  at  the  combat  in  the  arena  eighteen  hun 
dred  years  ago  —  the  wonderland  of  Cape  Cod. 

The  device  above  the  great  seal  of  Massa 
chusetts  is  Cape  Cod  in  outline,  only  reversed 
and  with  sword  in  fist. 

This  side  of  the  funny  bone  of  the  Cape's 
elbow,  at  present  Chatham,  there  is  an  inden 
tation  of  the  coast :  Lewis  Bay.  Just  here  on 
this  bay,  which  did  not  escape  the  keen  eye  of 
Samuel  de  Champlain  on  one  of  his  many  voy 
ages,  lies  Hyannis ;  "over  eastward"  Barn- 
stable  and  Yarmouth;  and,  trending  north 
along  the  coast,  Sandwich,  Plymouth,  Duxbury, 
Scituate,  Cambridge,  Watertown,  Lynn,  and 
Nahant.  Here,  along  the  curve  of  Massa 
chusetts  Bay,  from  the  sands  of  Barnstable  to 
the  rocks  of  Nahant,  which  unproductive  penin 
sula  a  far-removed  grandfather  bought  of  an 
Indian  sachem  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  and  proceeded 
thriftily  to  make  tar  from  its  pine  trees,  are  to 
be  found  many  of  the  roots  of  my  special  life 
in  the  New  World. 


42  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

Not  for  a  modern  fortune  would  I  exchange 
what  the  estates  of  these  various  ancestors 
have  yielded  me  in  impressions  alone  —  those 
impressions  that  are  "more  lasting  than  bronze". 

4- 

To  a  child  city  born,  the  journey  down  the 
Cape  in  one  of  the  slow-going,  infrequent  trains 
of  the  Old  Colony  line  was  a  long,  long  road  to 
Paradise.  With  the  first  breath  from  the  salt 
marshes  I  was  blissful,  for  I  was  entering  a  new 
world. 

The  train  shackled  along  over  the  rough 
roadbed.  Now  and  then  a  branch  of  the  scrub 
oak  coppice  brushed  the  side  of  the  car.  The 
sands  stretched  away  north  and  south  to  the 
rippling  blue.  After  a  long  wait  at  the  "Nar 
rows",  the  train  started  again  in  the  twilight 
on  its  last  leisurely  lap  for  Yarmouth  and 
Hyannis.  Wonderful  fragrances  drew  in  through 
the  car  windows  that  were  as  a  rule  open :  — 
the  spice  of  marsh  pinks,  the  strong,  salty 
breathings  of  an  incoming  tide,  the  resinous 
pungency  escaping  from  pines  in  the  cool  of 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED   ESTATES    43 

the  evening  after  their  hot  sun  bath.  At 
times  I  get  it  here,  but  never  of  quite  the  same 
commingled  perfumes.  Last  summer  I  was 
sitting  at  one  of  the  windows  that  look  harbor- 
wards,  and  as  the  tide  turned  the  sea  seemed  to 
breathe  once,  deeply ;  then  it  sent  its  life-giving 
ozone  over  the  masses  of  roses  and  honeysuckle 
in  full  bloom  below  our  bank.  The  fragrance 
of  it  opened  wide  the  sense  portal  of  smell  for 
memories  of  those  home-goings  to  my  grand 
mother  on  the  Cape. 

S- 

One  of  the  seventeenth  century  Cape  grand 
fathers  on  the  maternal  side  was  born  rich, 
inherited  riches,  married  riches,  accumulated 
riches,  and  died  rich;  yet  of  true  wealth  he 
possessed  nothing  and,  more  is  the  pity,  knew 
nothing  of  its  meaning.  He  was  just  "a  stingy 
old  screw".  Yet  I  am  his  debtor,  for  among 
his  many  investments  in  land  he  made  one  of  a 
thousand  acres  in  what  is  now  Hartford  County 
in  Connecticut,  on  the  Connecticut  River,  the 
same  being,  according  to  description,  "the  fifth 
lot  at  the  crotch  of  the  river". 


44  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

It  is  by  virtue  of  those  thousand  acres  at 
"the  crotch  of  the  river"  and  of  another  thou 
sand  near  and  on  the  Connecticut's  largest 
branch,  the  White  River  in  Vermont,  —  six 
hundred  of  which  were  deeded  to  a  great-great 
grandfather  on  the  paternal  side,  and  designated 
on  the  parchment  as  "his  pitch",  and  four 
hundred  more  belonging  to  his  son,  —  that  I 
inherit  all  the  beauty  of  the  Connecticut  Valley, 
that  wonderful  valley  which  lies  at  our  doors 
yet  is  sought  for  its  beauty  by  comparatively 
few. 

How  many  realize  that  this  great  New  Eng 
land  artery  has  a  course  of  nearly  four  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  ?  How  many  have  ever  jour 
neyed,  just  for  the  sake  of  its  exquisite  scenery, 
—  as  thousands  seek  the  Wyoming  Valley  of 
Pennsylvania,  —  from  Lyme  to  Lyndon,  we 
will  say,  on  its  Passumpsic  branch  in  northern 
Vermont,  or  to  Littleton  in  the  White  Hills  ? 

The  scenery  is  not  spectacular,  but  from  mouth 
to  source  there  is  constant  variety  and  the  charm 
of  contrast :  the  gradual  transition  from  low 
sandstone  banks,  populous  with  cities  and  towns, 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND  LANDED  ESTATES    45 

to  the  gateway  of  the  hills  and  the  turn  of  in 
numerable  mill-wheels ;  from  the  slow,  sea 
going  flood,  bearing  on  its  sluggish  current  sloop 
and  schooner  and  tug  from  Long  Island  Sound, 
to  rapids  and  falls  and  sharp  twisting  curves 
where  the  White  and  the  Lower  Ammonoosuc 
wind  among  the  mountains  on  the  slopes  and 
heights  of  which  are  still  to  be  found  lonely 
trails,  primeval  forests,  miles  of  green  solitude, 
and  a  silence  unbroken  save  for  hoot  of  owl 
and  laugh  of  loon. 

What  more  charming  than  the  approach  to 
Hartford  and  its  canal  that  mirrors  tower 
and  bridges  ?  Where  will  you  find  two  such 
independent  young  mountain  scouts  as  Tom 
and  Holyoke  ?  Where  more  gracious  watery 
pleasances  than  the  Connecticut's  broad  sweep 
between  still  broader  meadows,  from  North- 
field  to  Claremont  and  Windsor  ?  Who  has 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  sentinel  outposts 
of  the  White  and  Green  mountains,  Monadnock 
and  Ascutney,  loom  vast  and  shadowy  blue 
through  the  September  haze  ?  And  who,  fol 
lowing  the  Lower  Ammonoosuc  and  the  White 


46  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

through  the  overlapping  foothills  into  the  heart 
of  both  ranges,  has  not  felt  his  breath  quicken 
at  the  sudden  eclipse  of  all  sunshine  and  scenery 
as  the  train  rushes  into  and  through  an  old, 
covered,  wooden  bridge,  few  of  which  remain, 
and  out  again  along  precipitous  banks  below 
which  the  swiftly  flowing  water  runs,  for  a  brief 
moment,  burnished  silver  ? 

All  this  beauty  is  mine  by  virtue  of  that  in 
heritance  of  two  thousand  acres.  I  know  this 
valley  in  all  seasons,  nor  can  I  say  in  which  it 
most  entrances.  At  which  "  crotch  of  the  river  ", 
or  on  which  "heaven-kissing  hill"  those  acres 
are  spread,  whose  they  are  —  that  is  all  one  to 
me ;  my  inheritance  remains ;  it  cannot  be 
taken  from  me. 

6. 

I  should  like  to  dwell  on  some  of  the  special 
preserves  on  this,  my  largest  landed  property, 
the  Valley  of  the  Connecticut,  but  it  would  be 
to  the  exclusion  of  an  inventory  of  my  many 
lesser,  far  humbler  estates.  However,  in  my 
pride  of  possession,  I  may  be  permitted  to  sug 
gest  to  him  who  has  never  journeyed  four 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED  ESTATES    47 

hundred  miles  up  this  valley  in  mid-winter,  to 
make  good  that  omission  without  waiting  many 
years.  He  will  be  my  debtor. 

Of  course,  one  should  choose  the  time.  I 
recall  that  I  made  the  journey  in  January,  1898. 

After  leaving  the  Sound  and  following  for 
miles  the  steely  gray  river  under  an  ominous, 
clouded  sky,  we  entered,  at  Springfield,  the 
region  of  snow.  At  Brattleboro  the  river  flowed 
darkly  beneath  ice  floes.  As  we  followed  it 
northward  it  became  ice-bound.  Still  farther 
on,  the  newly  fallen  snow  lay  thick  upon  it 
and  what  was  river  and  what  was  field  it  was 
hard  to  distinguish. 

There  had  been  a  heavy  snow  storm  a  few 
days  before ;  it  added  a  foot  to  the  usual  winter 
depth.  Twenty-four  hours  of  thawing  had 
followed  closely  upon  that,  and,  directly,  more 
snow,  wet  and  clinging.  In  the  night  before 
I  made  this  journey,  the  mercury  in  the  more 
northern  latitudes  had  dropped  sufficiently  to 
fix  solidly,  as  part  ice,  every  flake  that  had  fallen 
on  roof,  fence,  bush,  and  coppice,  on  every 
branch  of  hemlock,  spruce,  and  pine. 


48  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

The  gray  skies  were  with  us  during  the  whole 
day;  they  deepened  in  the  east  to  a  bluish 
slate  and  against  them  the  New  Hampshire 
mountains,  snow  covered  from  base  to  summit, 
showed  indefinite  and  ghostly.  The  hemlocks, 
black  against  the  gray  of  sky  and  white  of  hill 
side,  were  weighted  with  snow,  their  lower 
branches  broken.  The  spruce  looked  thin,  for 
every  tiny  twig  and  branchlet  bent  beneath 
its  icy  load.  The  pines  towering  into  the  gray 
held  their  own,  but  looked  like  squads  of  con 
victs,  for  each  trunk  on  the  northeast  side, 
whence  came  the  last  storm,  was  coated  with 
snow  and  ice ;  here  and  there  a  heavy  over 
laden  lower  branch  swept  the  ground. 

But  there  was  no  monotony  in  the  ever- 
changing  mountain-sides,  overlapping  hills,  in 
tervales  where  the  watercourses  could  be  traced 
only  by  the  fringe  of  willows,  in  the  roadside 
coppice  of  wondrously  interlaced  and  spraying 
bushes.  Everywhere  was  bewildering  grace  of 
outline :  intricate  anatomy  of  forest  trees  and 
underbrush,  curving  riverbanks,  soft  swells  of 
meadow  lands,  flowing,  upward  reaches  of  foot- 


ROOTS,  SUBSOIL,  AND  LANDED  ESTATES    49 

hill  slopes  leading  the  eye  to  mountain  profile, 
rounded  summit,  or  sharpened  peak. 

Only  once,  as  the  train  approached  Ascutney, 
the  sun,  being  about  an  hour  and  a  half  to  its 
setting,  broke  through  the  clouded  west  and, 
for  a  moment,  transformed  that  noble  plain  of 
approach,  with  its  adjacent  semicircle  of  hills, 
into  a  resplendent  amphitheatre  of  prismatic 
colors. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment;  then  the  gray- 
white  of  snow  and  ice  on  river  and  plain,  the 
white  and  black  of  hemlock  'woods,  the  soft 
purple  gray  of  our  long  steam  pennon  relieved 
the  dazzled  sight. 

7- 

I  can  but  contrast  the  autumnal  effects  of 
color  here  on  the  island  with  those  among  the 
hills  and  peaks  of  the  Green  and  White  moun 
tains. 

Here,  over  the  low  moorland,  the  coloring 
is  laid  on  slowly.  I  have  watched  its  perfecting 
for  two  weeks.  There  are  acres  of  low-running, 
wide-spreading  scarlet  in  monotone;  acres  of 
browns  and  yellows ;  acres  of  dull,  dark  red 


50  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

like  the  lees  of  wine,  all  accented  by  the  blackish 
green  of  dwarfed  pine  plantations.  There  is  no 
necromancer  frost  at  work  here;  it  is  late 
November  before  that  blight  falls.  It  is  sun 
shine  and  sea  winds,  salt-impregnated  soil, 
root-seeking  sap  and  natural  decay  that  are 
at  work  on  these  moors,  painting  them  with 
large  impressionist  stroke  in  broad  masses  of 
color. 

It  is  then  I  look  from  my  eastern  windows 
across  the  harbor,  —  the  blue  of  which  at  times 
is  the  blue  of  Maggiore  beneath  the  terraced, 
garden  walls  of  Isola  Bella,  or  that  glimpse  of 
the  open  Adriatic  beyond  the  Giudecca  at 
Venice,  —  over  miles  of  moorland  so  rich  in 
such  subdued  perfection  of  coloring  that  the 
eye  feasts  on  it,  as  does  the  imagination  on 
the  iteration  and  reiteration  of  those  old  taber 
nacle  colors  :  "blue,  and  purple,  and  scarlet 
and  (white)  fine  twined  linen".  Somehow  that 
special  color  scheme  never  seems  complete 
unless  I  add  the  coverings,  "of  rams'  skins 
dyed  red". 

This  is  autumn  on  our  island. 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED   ESTATES    51 

8. 

I  do  not  know  how  many,  many  times  be 
tween  the  ages  of  six  and  twelve  I  read  that 
formula  of  color  for  the  tabernacle  furnishings 
(my  father  gave  me  fifty  cents  a  year  for  reading 
the  Bible  through  annually.  I  accomplished 
this  task  for  love  of  him,  stimulated  by  the 
reward.  To  what  extent  am  I  not  his  debtor  !)  ; 
but  I  do  know  that  the  constant  reiteration, 
the  insistence  on  that  special  combination  of 
colors,  set  for  me  then,  and  thereafter  for  my 
life,  the  standard  of  color  combination  that  most 
fully  satisfies  me. 

Never  an  incomparable  moorland  sunset,  of 
which  I  am  witness,  that  I  do  not  see  the  cloud- 
tabernacle  curtains  of  purple  and  scarlet.  Never 
a  glimpse  of  the  harbor  waters  faintly  white 
at  sunset  under  the  rising  of  the  pale  full  moon, 
and  of  the  purple-red  of  the  moors  beyond, 
never  the  sight  of  the  fall  of  foam  on  the  bar 
and  the  blue  of  the  Sound  behind  it,  that  I  do 
not  experience  that  elation  from  gratified  color- 
sense,  fostered  by  the  ancient  artificers'  formula  : 


52  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

"blue,  and  purple,  and  scarlet  and  fine  twined 
linen". 

9- 

But  in  October,  among  my  mountains  and 
hills,  the  slopes  of  which  feed  the  Connecticut, 
the  crimson  flame  of  maples  leaps  higher  and 
higher  up  hill  and  mountain-side.  It  darts 
unexpectedly  from  out  some  dark  hemlock 
bush;  it  flaunts  a  branch,  a  saucy  Mephisto- 
phelian  feather,  above  a  russet  oak.  The  wood 
land  roads,  thickly  canopied  with  birch,  beech, 
elm,  and  now  and  then  a  giant  butternut,  are 
long  arcades  of  varied  golds  —  dull  gold,  antique 
gold,  red  and  Roman  golds,  light,  California 
virgin  gold,  with  now  and  then  a  mass  of  road 
side,  frost-touched  sumach  like  jacinth  in 
ancient  Etruscan  setting. 

In  these  northern  hills  and  mountains,  three 
hundred  miles  from  this  island,  the  hot  mid 
day  sun  of  October,  warm  rain,  and  a  sharp, 
hard  frost  closely  following  it,  are  the  miracle 
workers.  Twenty-four  hours  may  transform 
the  mountain  world. 

Curious  !     Here  all  the  natural  and  artificial 


ROOTS,  SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED  ESTATES    53 

lines  are  low,  earth-seeking,  as  if  adjusting  them 
selves  to  sea  level ;  whereas  among  the  moun 
tains  of  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont  the  lines 
tend  to  the  perpendicular,  slope-angles  of  every 
degree  leading  the  eye  upward  or  downward. 

I  find  as  I  live  longer  here  that  all  these 
natural  lines  lead  the  vision  outward ;  they  run 
to  every  point  of  the  compass.  I  gain  a  broader 
outlook  upon  what  I  may  call  the  levelling  pro 
cesses  of  life.  Among  the  mountains  of  our 
North  Country  I  catch  the  inspiration  of  life 
from  both  its  heights  and  depths  —  an  insight 
into  it  rather  than  an  outlook  upon  it. 

10. 

A  complete  inventory  of  my  estates  would 
fill  this  page.  I  need  only  indicate  a  few; 
they  are  not  confined  by  any  means  to  this 
side  of  the  ocean.  I  have  several  in  Kent. 
One  of  the  Old  Colony  grandfathers  was  a 
clothier  from  East  Greenwich  in  that  county 
and,  migrating  hither,  lived  for  a  time  on  Kent 
Street,  —  so  called  because  of  the  "men  of 
Kent"  who  settled  there,  —  in  Scituate. 


54  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

Whenever  I  have  been  in  London  I  have 
intended  to  make  that  water  journey  down  the 
Thames  from  Battersea  to  Greenwich,  not 
only  to  verify  the  mist  and  smoke  effects  of 
Whistler's  etching  of  the  Tower  Bridge,  but  to 
see  something  of  London  on  the  Kentish  side 
which  is  far  from  reminding  one  of  the  much 
besung  hopfields  and  cherry  orchards  of  that 
noted  English  county.  Unfortunately  this  has 
always  remained  an  intention.  Had  I  carried 
it  out,  East  Greenwich,  where  my  clothier- 
grandfather  lived,  would  have  claimed  my 
interest ;  and,  after  that,  a  leisurely,  looking- 
up-estates  excursion  into  southern  Kent,  as 
well  as  Sussex,  would  have  rewarded  me  satis 
factorily. 

What  concern  is  it  of  mine  if  decades  or  cen 
turies  ago  others  purchased,  others  inherited 
those  fine  estates  of  Groombridge,  Spedhurst, 
Hockerton,  Laundale  ?  Half  their  charm  lies 
in  their  names.  The  present  owners  cannot 
deprive  me  of  my  special  brand  of  inheritance. 
And  having  feed  lodge-keepers,  and  importuned 
gardeners  over  Kentish  hedges,  it  is  just  possible 


ROOTS,   SUBSOIL,  AND  LANDED  ESTATES    55 

I  might  have  been  permitted  to  set  foot  on  one 
of  my  many  over-seas  landed  properties. 

Shades  of  my  ancestors  !  How  well  you 
fought,  and  delved,  and  loved,  and  hated; 
grasped  with  one  hand  and  gave  with  the  other  ! 
And  now  how  thickly  lie  your  bones  as  dust  in 
those  old  churches  and  graveyards ;  how  well 
your  mortal  bodies  have  enriched  the  soil  of 
Kent! 

All  these  good  intentions  are  not  confined 
to  my  English  right  of  domain,  for  sometime 
—  ah,  that  "  sometime "!  —  I  mean  to  take  a 
day  for  Duxbury  and  there  seek  out  the  land 
where  stood  the  old  homestead  of  the  Aldens. 
That  poor-rich  old  grandfather's  sister,  Abigail, 
married  the  captain-son  of  John  and  Priscilla 
Alden.  I  am  ever  grateful  to  her  for  favoring 
him;  it  gives  me  a  live  collateral  interest,  as 
niece,  in  her  father-in-law's  love  story. 

II. 

But  I  must  enlarge  no  longer  the  category 
of  my  landed  properties.  Their  real  value  to 
me  consists  in  the  fact  that,  during  my  life,  I 


$6  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

have  always  felt  at  home  in  farmhouse,  fisher 
man's  cottage,  in  workshop,  or  mill,  in  mansion, 
hall,  or  manor.  I  can  account  for  this  feeling 
of  "at  homeness"  in  these  varied  environments  : 
it  is  an  inheritance  from  those  thousands  of 
ancestors  who  were  sheltered  under  such  varied 
roof-trees  ;  who  worked  —  fighting  Indians,  fish 
ing,  tanning  hides,  making  tar  from  the  pine 
trees  of  Nahant,  weaving  cloth,  building  mills, 
weirs,  causeways  for  the  benefit  of  the  com 
munity  and  governing  it,  in  that  first  half- 
century  of  the  Old  Colony's  life;  or,  in  Eng 
land,  fighting  Saxon,  French,  and  brother  Eng 
lishman,  cultivating  the  Kentish  land  as  hind 
or  yeoman,  adding  to  great  landed  estates  by 
diplomatic  marriage  with  heiresses,  —  no  little 
work  of  a  certain  kind,  this,  —  hobnobbing 
with  Chaucer  and  actually  breathing  the  same 
air  with  William  Shakespeare.  I  have  an 
ancestral  grudge  of  long  standing  against  some 
of  those  worthies  for  not  handing  down  to  me 
some  record  of  those  two  Englishmen  !  Why 
did  not  David  de  Waller,  Master  of  the  Rolls 
for  thirty  years  to  Edward  III.,  tell  us  of  Chaucer? 


ROOTS,  SUBSOIL,  AND   LANDED  ESTATES    57 

12. 

As  I  have  already  stated,  my  one  piece  of  duly 
registered  estate,  what  I  actually  own  under  the 
law  of  the  land,  is  a  mere  back  yard  here  on  this 
island.  But  I  assure  you  it  is  no  ordinary  back 
yard.  Although  its  superficial  contents  are 
registered  as  something  over  six  thousand  square 
feet,  its  outlook  is  so  far-reaching  that  it  enlarges 
daily  to  thousands  of  acres  in  my  mind's  eye, 
and  I  think  I  dare  assert,  and  with  truth,  to 
my  natural  eye  as  well.  Its  only  back  gate  is 
the  gate  of  every  new  day  beyond  harbor  and 
moors ;  and  not  for  Golconda's  riches  would  I 
exchange  the  privilege  of  seeing  the  sun  rise 
from  over  those  moors  in  winter,  and  in  summer 
from  the  ocean  haunts  beyond  the  "haulover". 

At  such  times  the  back  gate  becomes  the  lodge 
gates  to  a  royal  demesne. 

At  night,  in  that  far  east,  the  lodge  gates  of 
day  being  closed,  there  shine  forth  two  lights 
to  mark  those  portals.  One  can  be  seen  only 
when  the  tide  is  at  the  flood,  and  the  night  is 
both  clear  and  dark.  Then  one  can  glimpse 


58  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

the  irregular  rise  and  fall  of  the  mast-lanterns 
on  the  lightship  moored  twelve  miles  seawards 
on  Great  Round  Shoal.  The  other,  except  in 
times  of  fog,  may  always  be  seen  at  the  eastern 
point  of  the  compass.  It  is  the  brilliant  flash 
and  gleam  of  Sankaty  beacon  seven  miles  away 
across  the  moors. 

Night  after  night,  season  after  season,  with  a 
regularity  that  allays  all  fret  of  present  exist 
ence,  that  brings  calm  into  the  fevered  life  of 
To-day,  those  great  gates,  defined  by  those  two 
lights,  open  invisibly  for  the  pass  and  re-pass  of 
the  full  moon,  a  planet,  a  constellation.  Watch 
ing  their  serene  entrance,  I  feel  that  I  own  some 
thing  both  of  earth  and  heaven. 

No  wonder  that  the  little  back  yard  here  on 
this  island  outpost  in  the  Atlantic  dwarfs  all 
those  ancestral  estates. 


THE  "PASS" 


I. 

THIS  is  the  island  word  for  what  may  be 
seen  from  one's  windows,  front  or  back,  as  it 
may  chance,  of  the  local  life  of  the  town. 

My  front  windows  are  directly  on  Orange 
Street  which  is  a  thoroughfare.  They  are 
flush  with  the  sidewalk  as  are  many  in  this  old 
town.  Looking  from  them  I  am  never  con 
scious  of  the  fact  that  Nantucket  is  an  island. 
I  might  be  in  some  town  in  Scotland  except 
that  the  houses  are  shingled  instead  of  being 
laid  in  stone;  or  in  some  large  village  of 
the  English  Channel  coast  counties ;  yet  there 
is  not  the  slightest  hint  of  imitation.  It  is 
unique. 

Those  unacquainted  with  the  winter  popula 
tion  might  conceive  of  the  town  as  an  American 

59 


60  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

edition  of  Cranford ;  but  it  is  nothing  of  the 
kind.  It  is  literally  running  over  with  chil 
dren  whom,  in  my  experience  of  three  years,  I 
have  rarely  heard  cry,  so  rarely,  that  at  the  first 
wail  I  usually  rush  to  the  window  to  see  if  any 
thing  untoward  has  happened.  Like  the  chil 
dren  of  foreign  lands  they  play  in  troops  on  the 
roadbed  of  the  streets,  whether  it  be  of  sand, 
asphalt,  or  cobbles.  Their  parents  also  walk 
thereon ;  in  fact,  the  whole  population,  whether 
summer  or  winter,  preempt  the  roadway  rather 
than  use  the  narrow  sidewalks  where  many  of 
the  protruding  flights  of  front  steps,  planted 
solidly  on  the  inner  half,  threaten  to  knock  the 
breath  out  of  an  unwary  and  conventional 
foot-passenger.  They  remind  me  of  those  so- 
called  "kneeling  windows"  on  the  Florentine 
palaces.  I  recall  that  a  member  of  my  family 
while  taking  a  walk  in  that  city  was,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  abstraction,  brought  up  short  and 
breathless  against  the  unyielding  stone. 

Yes,  there  are  literally  troops  of  children  to 
be  seen  at  any  hour  not  occupied  in  school. 
The  majority  of  them  are  children  of  Irish, 


THE  "PASS"  61 

Portuguese,  Brava,  English-American  parent 
age.  It  is  on  account  of  these  varied  nation 
alities  that  I  applied  the  word  "marvel"  to  the 
winter  population.  The  disintegration  of  the 
old  underlying  English-American  stratum  is 
rapidly  taking  place.  There  is  already  amal 
gamation  of  various  nationalities,  and  I  doubt 
not  in  another  generation  or  two  there  will 
result  renewed  vitality  through  cross-breeding. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  student  of  sociol 
ogy  and  to  seek,  for  the  purpose  of  observing 
this  process  of  amalgamation  or  assimilation, 
the  cities  that  are  congested  by  the  influx  of 
other  nationalities.  The  process  can  be  ob 
served  and  studied  by  any  one  of  clear  vision  in 
a  mountain  hamlet,  in  a  village  of  the  coast,  or 
on  this  island.  When  beneath  my  living-room 
windows  there  can  be  heard  from  the  "pass" 
Portuguese,  Brava  —  a  dialect  of  the  same  — 
Greek,  French,  or  English,  I  realize  that  I  am 
in  no  backwater,  no  side  eddy  of  the  great 
stream  of  the  migrations  of  the  nations,  but 
in  the  full  current,  in  midstream,  as  it  were. 
A  recognition  of  this,  and  what  it  means  nation- 


62  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

ally,  precludes  any  considerable  feeling  of  insu 
lar  isolation. 

This  "day  pass"  is,  in  consequence,  more 
intensely  interesting  to  me  than  a  well-staged 
and  acted  play;  for  the  stage  is  a  real  one, 
and  those  that  figure  on  it,  passing  and  re-pass 
ing  daily,  are  not  simulating  the  various  roles 
that  belong  to  comedy,  to  joyous  vaudeville, 
to  melodrama,  misery  or  tragedy  —  it  is  all 
real,  but  the  language  is  polyglot. 

2. 

There  goes  Tommy  !  a  ward  of  the  town  and 
one  of  God's  "hidden  ones".  I  do  not  know  in 
all  my  acquaintance  a  more  dead-in-earnest, 
contented,  peaceable  —  when  not  tormented  — 
worker  than  he.  He  loves  his  pushcart  and  his 
profession  of  collecting  rubbish.  He  is  a  young 
fellow  now,  and  will  always  remain  young  of 
heart.  He  can  never  "grow  up"  although  he 
is  strong,  tall,  able  to  do  and  does  according  to 
his  ability.  Delighted  with  any  small  gift,  he 
cherishes  it.  Many  a  time  during  the  last  three 
years  I  have  heard  him  pass  the  house  playing 


THE   "PASS"  63 

"Home,  Sweet  Home"  perfectly  on  his  har 
monica,  a  Christmas  gift.  On  that  first  Christ 
mas  when  he  came  into  possession  of  this 
treasure,  as  he  passed  beneath  the  window  in 
the  early  twilight  on  his  way  to  his  only  home, 
the  poorhouse,  I  heard  him  playing  that  tune 
softly  and  sweetly.  Hearing  it,  I  could  but  ac 
knowledge  that  all  earthly  joys  are  relative. 

I  should  miss  Tommy  from  the  "pass". 

Now  and  then  a  quahaug  fisherman  tramps 
by  with  a  huge  burlap  sack  of  that  succulent 
bivalve  on  his  back. 

Joyous  parties  of  young  people  on  horseback 
canter  gayly  through  the  street  on  their  way 
to  the  state  road  or  the  moors.  Smart  private 
traps,  old  shays,  queer,  primitive-looking 
Quaker  carts,  loads  of  seaweed  coming  in  from 
the  South  Shore  to  be  used  for  fertilizing,  carts 
laden  with  clam  shells,  fruit,  or  vegetables  all 
join  Orange  Street's  lively  procession. 

The  bells  on  the  baker's  cart  may  be  heard 
at  any  time  of  day.  They  jingle  as  loudly  and 
merrily  as  if  there  were  two  feet  of  snow,  and  the 
gay  cart  on  runners ;  at  least,  they  hint  of 


64  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

winter  as  I  understand  the  expression  of  that 
season,  but  it  seems  to  be  wanting  very  gener 
ally  here. 

The  powerful  blast  of  the  fisherman's  horn 
announces  that  there  is  a  prospect  of  mackerel, 
cod,  white-bait,  scup,  flounders,  or  swordfish 
from  the  shoals  or  deep  sea. 

There  is  a  very  special  knife-grinder  a  glimpse 
of  whom  is  worth  much  to  the  eye  that  de 
lights  in  the  pure  Italian  type.  His  matched 
stationary  bells  on  his  little  machine  are  so 
perfect  in  tone  that  I,  for  one,  would  gladly 
follow  him  down  the  street  for  the  sake  of  pro 
longing  the  pleasure  they  give  me.  I  have  had 
less  at  many  a  Boston  Symphony. 

Sometimes  there  is  other  music,  crude  in  its 
way  but  contributing  to  round  out  musically 
the  daily  "pass".  Down  the  long  vista  of  this 
foreign-looking  street  I  can  see  the  procession 
of  the  "Carrying  of  the  Crown".  There  are 
scores  of  children  whose  parents  only  a  few 
years  ago  were  celebrating  this  feast  in  the 
same  way  in  Lisbon,  mayhap,  or  on  one  of  the 
islands  of  the  Azores.  For  a  moment  a  queer 


THE  "PASS"  65 

little  feeling  of  homesickness  —  for  what  I  can 
not  say  —  possesses  me  wholly.  I  feel  that 
I  am  in  a  foreign  land. 

Again,  on  Corpus  Christi  Day,  as  I  watch 
from  an  upper  balcony  the  approach  of  the  long 
bright  procession,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  lost  my 
grip  on  my  own  nationality.  The  street  is 
filled  from  side  to  side  with  scores  of  children, 
girls,  and  youths,  all  in  gala  dress.  The  air  is 
filled  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers,  although  the 
little  wreaths  are  artificial.  They  are  march 
ing  to  the  strong  blare  of  trumpet  and  beat  of 
drum  beneath  the  gleam  of  silken  churchly 
banners  and  —  ah !  there  they  are,  glorified 
in  the  sunshine  (I  feel  again  at  home),  three  of 
those  old  tabernacle  colors  —  "blue  and  scarlet 
and  the  white  of  fine  twined  linen"  —  Our 
Colors  !  They,  too,  are  a  symbol  of  sanctuary 
to  these  peoples. 

3- 

As  for  the  "night  pass",  and  there  is  one,  I 
not  only  cannot  see  it,  I  should  not  care  to  see 
it  if  I  could.  I  know  perfectly  well  what  is 


66  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

passing  along  the  famous  South  Channel  be 
yond  Great  Point  and  the  "hau.lover". 

I  see  in  imagination  the  passing  of  sloop, 
barge,  steamer,  and  schooner  —  three-masted, 
five-masted  —  their  sails  and  smoke  pennons 
faintly  white  against  the  clear  dark,  or  reful- 
gently  opaline  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  I 
see  with  the  inner  eye  as  plainly  as  if  the  outer 
vision  could  compass  it,  what  is  nightly  passing 
out  there  beyond  the  moors,  beyond  the  forty 
miles  of  shoals,  on  the  Atlantic  main. 

On  the  nights  of  terrific  wind  I  see  the  surf- 
men  —  the  coast .  patrols  —  on  that  long  sand 
dune  of  Coskata,  out  by  Great  Point ;  I  see  them 
at  Maddequet,  on  lone  Muskeget,  or  on  the 
wild  South  Shore.  They  are  leaning  forward, 
head  down  and  on  to  the  fearful  force  that  beats 
them  backwards,  beats  the  breath  from  their 
bodies  till  they  are  forced  to  lie  flat  to  regain  it. 
Stung  by  sleet,  lashed  by  rain,  blinded  by  driv 
ing  snow,  they  stagger  forward  on  their  awful 
beat  towards  their  goal  where,  facing  about, 
they  race  before  the  fury  of  the  wind  to  their 
shelter  in  the  station. 


THE   "PASS"  67 

I  see  in  the  north  and  east  the  pass  of  barge 
and  schooner  bewildered  in  snow  squall,  lost  in 
fog,  helpless  among  the  maze  of  slues,  bars, 
shoals,  and  rips.  I  see  them  caught  in  the 
sudden  gale,  dragging  anchors,  blown  from  under 
the  lee  of  Great  Point,  or  parting  hawsers  and 
stranded  on  one  of  the  numberless  shoals  —  a 
toy  for  breaking  seas. 

I  see  the  crew  taking  to  the  rigging,  mast  and 
spar  and  marline  sleet-coated,  or  putting  off,  a 
forlorn  hope,  in  open  boats.  I  see  the  crew  of 
some  sinking  barge  trying  in  vain  to  signal  to 
the  tow ;  and,  in  the  fury  of  the  storm,  the  black 
ness  of  the  night,  I  see  the  surfmen  waiting, 
watching,  ready  at  the  first  break  of  dawn  with 
surfboat  and  breeches  buoy. 

I  know  that  those  men  lashed  in  the  rigging 
are  freezing,  the  men  in  the  open,  drifting  boat 
already  frozen ;  that  in  the  first  light  of  dawn 
the  noble  surfmen,  who  risk  their  lives  for  their 
fellow-men,  will  bring  them  in,  frozen,  some  of 
them,  in  the  open  boat,  freezing,  many  of  them, 
from  the  ice-coated  rigging. 

I  know  that  on  the  South  Shoals,  forty  miles 


68  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

from  this  island,  the  flashing  beacons  of  the 
lightship  rise  and  fall  as  the  vessel  heaves  and 
tosses,  plunges  and  rolls  in  the  shallow,  tumul 
tuous  waters  lashed  white  by  the  gale.  Inaction 
is  the  duty  of  the  crew  when  all  about  is  in 
chaotic  movement.  They  can  afford  no  active 
help;  they  must  simply  "stand  by"  —  the 
hardest  task  for  a  man.  They  must  keep  the 
lights  trimmed  and  burning  while  their  unwieldy 
anchored  craft  pitches  from  the  crests  and  rolls 
in  the  troughs. 

I  know  that  there  are  other  tragedies  of  the 
sea  worse  than  death ;  for,  sometimes  on  those 
ever-anchored  but  ever-moving  ships,  the  brain 
gives  way  and  when  opportunity  offers  the  man 
is  taken  off  —  insane  from  the  monotony  of 
movement,  from  the  monotony  of  prolonged 
inaction,  constant  monotony  of  sea  and  sky, 
sky  and  sea,  rising  and  falling,  falling  only  to 
rise  again  with  inexorable  sequence. 

And  farther,  still  farther  beyond  the  South 
Shoals,  I  see  forging  ahead,  unheeding  the 
storm,  despite  wind,  snow,  fog,  or  ice,  the  huge 
ocean  liners.  I  see  their  myriad  lights,  the 


THE  "PASS"  69 

brilliant  saloon,  the  warmth  of  open  fires,  the 
comfort  of  library  and  smoking-room,  the  lux 
urious  staterooms  on  the  upper  decks,  the  cozy 
cells  of  the  lower  ones,  the  comfortable  second 
cabin  saloon  without  the  gayety  and  luxury  of 
the  first.  I  see  the  immigrants'  crowded  quar 
ters,  the  rows  of  low  bunks,  the  little  steerage 
hospital,  confined  at  best.  And  still  beneath 
I  see  the  engines,  the  coal-bunkers,  the  bulk 
heads.  And  in  and  through  all  I  see  that 
humanity  —  two  thousand  five  hundred  souls 
—  afloat  on  the  unstable  element  of  the  sea. 

Above  in  the  saloons,  the  billiard  room,  the 
grills,  there  is  feasting,  laughter,  dancing,  sing 
ing,  gambling,  drinking,  debauch.  Below, 
anguish  of  maternity  and  a  new-born  babe  in 
the  steerage  hospital,  or  an  old  life  suddenly 
snuffed  out  like  a  candle  in  one  of  the  immi 
grants'  bunks.  And  still  below  there  is  the 
perfect  working  of  ponderous  machinery,  the 
withering  flame  of  furnace  fires,  and  men,  half 
naked,  shovelling  with  might  and  main,  — the 
steamer  is  off  South  Shoals  Lightship  and  the 
record  must  be  broken,  —  shovelling  as  for  dear 


70  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

life,  all  through  the  night  shift  in  their  sweat 
and  their  grime. 

I  thank  God  I  may  not  actually  see  the  "night 
pass"  from  this  Island  Outpost  in  the  Atlantic. 
It  suffices  me  to  know  that  through  the  varying 
seasons,  night  after  night,  passing  and  re-pass 
ing,  it  is  always  there. 


VI 


OUTLOOK 
I, 

INSULARITY  does  not  necessarily  tend  to 
restrict  outlook  on  men  and  affairs.  On  the 
contrary  the  field  of  vision  may  be  enlarged 
although  the  angle  of  the  point  of  view  may 
shift.  At  least  this  has  been  my  personal 
experience  here. 

At  first  I  was  surprised  when  in  answer  to 
my  question  if  the  oak  wood  I  was  purchasing 
for  my  fireplaces  was  well  seasoned,  the  dealer 
replied  :  "Yes,  I've  just  filled  an  order  from 
some  place  up  the  Nile  for  three  cords  of  the 
same  lot,  and  Mr. ",  mentioning  the  pur 
chaser's  name,  "is  always  particular  on  that 
point. " 

It  certainly  extends  the  boundary  of  mundane 
affairs,  at  least  of  the  town,  when  the  honor 
able  selectmen  are  petitioned  on  ambassadorial 

71 


72  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

paper,  from  far  away  Japan,  to  lay  an  asphalt 
covering  on  a  noisy,  cobble-paved  street  of  this 
little,  antipodal  sister-island. 

That  my  Nantucket  neighbors  may  winter 
in  California,  Bermuda,  Algiers,  Canton,  or  on 
the  Riviera,  is  no  longer  a  matter  of  comment 
on  my  part;  it  was  until  I  understood  that 
this  bit  of  terminal  moraine,  three  miles  wide 
and  fifteen  long,  is  considered  —  and  is,  in 
reality  —  a  kind  of  social,  international  clearing 
house. 

As  I  have  said,  the  natural  lines  of  the  island 
and  its  environment  tend  to  lead  vision  out 
ward  and  beyond ;  and  not  only  is  that  vision 
unrestricted,  except  for  the  limitation  of  sight, 
but  through  it  there  is  a  stimulation  for  the 
inner  imaginative  eye  that  looks  beyond  the 
miles  of  moorland,  beyond  the  ocean  horizon 
line,  far,  far  along  the  waterway  of  the  nations 
to  southern  seas,  to  tropics  and  palms ;  and 
ever  beyond  to  antarctic  ice  and  towering  moun 
tain  range  buried  beneath  snow  and  scourged 
by  Polar  winds  —  the  cradle  of  continental 
glaciers. 


OUTLOOK  73 

I  venture  to  assert  that  I  think  thrice  to  every 
other  American  woman's  once  of  Shackleton, 
Scott,  and  Amundsen,  just  because  my  eyes 
can  look  abroad  southward  on  that  ocean  the 
Polar  seas  of  which,  in  the  ultimate  South, 
wash  the  shores  of  the  continent  they  have 
made  known  to  us. 

This  breadth  of  outlook  is  the  island's  inheri 
tance.  Its  seafaring  men,  captains,  mates, 
sailors  before  the  mast,  knew  the  Seven  Seas 
a  century  before  Kipling  sang  of  them.  Last 
summer  an  aged  woman  gave  as  her  contribution 
to  a  local  charity  a  basket  of  shells  brought  by 
her  father  from  the  shores  of  the  Pacific ;  they 
were  both  rare  and  beautiful.  Not  long  ago 
one  of  the  local  carpenters  lent  me  an  old  ship's 
ledger  in  which  was  written  his  great-uncle's 
account  of  his  nine  cast-away  years  among  the 
South  Sea  islands.  It  is  a  straightforward, 
manly  narrative  of  his  strange  life  and  how,  as 
sole  survivor  of  the  crew,  he  adapted  himself 
under  necessity  to  the  new  environment.  It  is 
nearly  a  century  old. 

Men  of  marked  business  capability  and  fine 


74  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

intelligence  were  the  owners  of  merchant-ships 
that  carried  our  flag  into  the  ports  of  England, 
France,  Russia,  Sweden,  China,  and  India.  And 
now  in  these  interesting  homes  I  may  find  the 
flotsam  of  a  century,  as  rare  chinas  —  old  Chel 
sea,  Lowestoft,  French  of  the  First  Empire,  or  a 
piece  of  carved  teakwood  furniture,  a  shawl 
from  the  handlooms  of  Cashmere.  One  dear 
lady  showed  me  her  sixty-seven  pitchers  —  direct 
heirlooms,  collateral  heirlooms,  gifts,  many  of 
them  a  collector  might  envy  —  and  in  addi 
tion  twelve  dozen  infinitesimal  silver  spoons  in 
a  carved  and  polished  cherry  stone.  I  judged 
them  to  be  something  less  than  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  in  length ;  a  magnifying  glass  was  needed 
to  see  them  properly.  They  were  a  wedding 
gift  bought  in  London  for  her  grandmother  at 
the  time  of  her  marriage  there  in  1812. 

The  island  remains  true  to  its  cosmopolitan 
inheritance. 

The  Rocky  Mountain  States,  the  states  of  the 
Mississippi  Valley,  the  South,  the  North,  moun 
tain  and  plain,  even  the  Atlantic  coast,  all 
contribute  their  quota  to  the  summer  popu- 


OUTLOOK  75 

lation.     As   for   the   winter   population  —  that 
is  a  marvel. 

The  second  great  stream  of  continental  immi 
gration,  setting  so  powerfully  the  last  twenty 
years  to  our  shores,  has  not  left  this  little  island 
untouched.  Just  as  the  Gulf  Stream  tempers 
these  waters,  warming  them  on  the  shoals  that 
extend  forty  miles  to  the  south,  and  makes  for 
a  climate  more  equable  than  any  on  the  Atlantic 
coast  north  of  Charleston,  so  this  island  feels 
the  influence  of  foreign  influx. 

As  a  result,  I  observe  on  this  Atlantic  outpost 
of  our  United  States,  in  this  era  of  rapid  tran 
sition,  something  of  the  remaking  of  all  America 
for  all  Americans.  It  is  well  to  meet  the  Inevi 
table  halfway. 

2. 

Removed  as  I  have  been  for  the  past  few 
years  from  what  I  may  call  the  tension  of  ex 
istence  —  the  attempt,  with  millions  of  other 
bread-winners,  to  make  headway  against  the 
overpowering  and  adverse  current  of  metro 
politan  life,  I  find  that  this  abstraction  from 
the  rush,  the  unease,  and  what,  perhaps,  I  may 


76  FROM   AN    ISLAND  OUTPOST 

best  designate  as  the  discontinuity  of  life  in 
the  rapids  of  those  great  centers  where  for  years 
I  have  made  my  home  —  New  York  and  Chi 
cago,  and  the  minor  cities  of  Boston  and  Wash 
ington  —  has  relaxed  certain  strained  attitudes 
towards  all  life.  The  outlook  has  become  nor 
mal.  The  inner  vision  has  cleared.  There  is 
no  surcharge  of  excitement  to  overstrain  heart 
or  brain. 

As  a  result,  affairs  on  the  continent,  —  the 
Islanders  always  speak  of  the  mainland,  and 
with  right,  as  uthe  continent",  — national  con 
ditions,  sectional  changes,  flux  of  new  ideas, 
influx  of  new  inventions,  reflux  of  satiety  en 
gendered  by  too  much  of  both,  recover  balance 
in  my  thought  of  them;  assume  normal  pro 
portions.  The  interplay  of  forces  in  the  devel 
opment  of  our  new  national  life  does  not  threaten, 
does  not  alarm.  These  forces  show  themselves 
as  following  the  natural  law  of  change,  the 
corollary  of  which  is,  and  ever  will  be,  unrest 
—  visible  or  invisible. 

Disintegration  is  taking  place  in  sections  of 
our  nation,  and  men  find  themselves  at  loss, 


OUTLOOK  77 

unable  to  account  for  the  results  of  it  that  are 
daily  in  bewildering  conditions  before  their 
eyes. 

3- 

Take,  for  instance,  our  own  New  England. 
As  it  is  my  home,  I  suppose  I  may  say  without 
undue  egotism  that  I  love  it  as  well  as  any  other 
New  Englander;  that  I  am  as  anxious  for  its 
well-being,  for  its  prosperity  along  industrial 
lines;  and  yet,  and  yet —  !  The  phrase  "the 
passing  of  New  England"  is  no  idle  one,  nor 
uncertain  of  sound. 

Several  years  ago  while  I  was  living  among  the 
Green  Mountains,  the  Grand  Trunk  Railroad 
purchased  the  Central  Vermont.  We,  who  saw 
daily  before  our  eyes  evidences  of  that  change 
in  ownership,  said  :  "This  is  one  great  wedge 
that  will,  in  time,  split  the  solidarity  of  New 
England." 

My  grandfather  had  as  helper  at  odd  times  an 
old  French  Canadian  ;  his  family  and  two  others 
settled  in  that  Green  Mountain  village ;  were 
industrious ;  prospered  in  their  way ;  reared 
their  children  whose  children  were  educated  in 


78  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

the  common  school,  and  drew  others  of  their 
nationality  to  them  —  a  local  tannery  proving 
the  industrial  attraction. 

I  have  wondered  often  who  would  have 
worked  that  tannery  if  not  they  ? 

In  time,  there  came  to  be  a  large  contingent 
of  French  Canadians  among  whom  I  have 
acquaintance.  These  children's  children  are 
now  Americans  to  the  marrow.  I  was  making 
purchases  last  spring  at  a  large  shop  in  Boston, 
one  of  our  old  reliables,  and  a  pleasant  sales 
woman,  in  taking  my  address,  said  :  "Oh,  I 
know  of  you  so  well ;  my  aunt  is ",  men 
tioning  one  of  that  third  generation  of  French 
Canadians  in  the  mountain  hamlet ;  it  was  but 
little  more  than  that  when  the  first  French 
immigrant  entered  it. 

Within  a  few  years,  I  have  seen  the  tops  of  the 
high  hills  surrounding  this  same  village  laid 
bare  to  sun  and  storm ;  their  granite  masses 
quarried,  hewn,  drilled,  sculptured,  by  French, 
Hungarians,  Poles,  Italians,  Lithuanians,  Scotch, 
and  Germans.  I  have  heard  the  polyglot  of 
languages  on  the  village  streets.  Seeing  all 


OUTLOOK  79 

this,  living  with  it  for  a  time,  I  have  realized 
something  of  the  great  forces  at  work  in  the  dis 
integration  of  the  foundation  racial  strata  of 
our  New  England  life,  as  well  as  of  the  effect  of 
wedge  and  cleavage. 

I  hold  it  a  privilege  to  have  been  permitted 
to  see  at  close  range  the  actual  working  of  this 
process  of  the  remaking  of  America.^ 

4- 

After  these  quarries  had  been  worked  a  few 
years,  being  then  in  Washington  for  the  winter 
of  1907-1908,  I  went  down  one  Sunday  morn 
ing  to  the  wholly  informal  opening  of  the  new 
Washington  Station,  from  the  entrance  of  which 
you  may  look  straight  uphill  to  the  Capitol. 

As  I  stood  there  among  the  thousands  gath 
ered  to  admire  the  nobly  proportioned  building 
and  the  beauty  of  the  stone,  purest  white  gran 
ite,  I  said  to  myself,  "I  believe  I  am  the  only 
one  among  these  thousands  who  has  seen  this 
granite  in  situ,  six  hundred  miles  to  the  north 
among  the  mountains  of  Vermont." 

I  recalled  that  day  when  I  drove  from  my 


8o  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

home  over  the  intervening  hills  to  visit  those 
recently  opened  quarries.  There,  as  yet  undis 
turbed,  bared  of  its  thin  layer  of  sod,  I  saw  the 
granite  that  was  to  materialize  in  the  Wash 
ington  Station  through  the  great  portal  of 
which  the  rulers  of  our  country,  millions  of  its 
citizens  and  school  children,  its  men  of  science, 
the  representatives  of  foreign  lands,  were  to 
pass  and  re-pass  for  —  who  can  say  how  many 
centuries  ? 

It  gave  me  food  for  thought. 

And  the  forgotten  quarrymen,  the  Poles, 
Hungarians,  Lithuanians,  Italians,  Scotch,  Ger 
mans,  and  French  who  made  this  possible  ?  I 
realized  as  I,  too,  passed  out  through  that  high- 
arched  entrance,  that  without  them  to  dig,  to 
hoist,  to  drill,  to  hew  and  smooth  and  sculp 
ture,  it  would  not  have  been  possible.  And  I 
knew,  moreover,  that  within  a  generation  many 
of  the  children  of  these  various  nationalities 
would  pass  and  re-pass  through  that  same  por 
tal  as  American  born  citizens,  their  patriotism 
stimulated  by  the  thought :  "Our  fathers  helped 
to  make  this. " 


OUTLOOK  8 1 

They  will  recognize  their  ownership  and  be 
justly  proud. 

5- 

Surely  those  third  and  fourth  generations  will 
feel  toward  their  fathers,  —  the  makers  of  Amer 
ica  in  what  I  may  call  "under  the  surface"  work, 
—  as  I  feel  toward  the  New  England  pioneers. 

One  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  a  pioneer 
grandfather  on  my  father's  side  migrated  from 
New  Milford  into  the  northern  wilderness,  work 
ing  his  way  up  the  Connecticut  Valley,  and 
settled  on  those  six  hundred  acres,  "his  pitch", 
near  its  White  branch.  There  he  made  roads, 
felled  trees,  built  first  the  log  house  and  after 
wards  the  substantial  farmhouse  of  big  pine 
from  "his  pitch";  cleared,  broke,  and  tilled 
his  land;  begot  sons  and  daughters;  upheld 
his  feeble  church  as  "deacon",  in  fact,  obeyed 
the  supreme  command  :  "Acquit  yourself  like 
a  man",  and  was  in  due  time  "gathered  to  his 
fathers".  His  simple  history  is  the  history  of 
thousands  of  New  England  born,  and  his  work 
the  great  work  of  the  New  England  pioneers. 
All  honor  to  their  unrecorded  lives. 


82  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

6. 

But  the  New  England  is  now  old.  In  seven 
years  it  will  have  been  settled  for  three  cen 
turies.  The  work  of  its  pioneers  has  long  been 
finished.  Even  its  industrialism  is  aging.  Its 
industrial  initiative  is  diminishing.  Its  lines 
of  traffic  are  not  the  lines  of  great  national 
food  supply  and  never  will  be  because  of  its 
isolation.  It  is  a  small,  cold,  northeast  corner 
of  the  United  States.  It  would  take  but  little 
to  render  it  insular  so  far  as  its  physical  con 
figuration  is  concerned.  Maine  is  three  fourths 
wilderness.  New  Hampshire  is  at  a  standstill 
in  population.  After  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
three  years  of  statehood,  Vermont's  utmost  is 
approximately  three  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand.  Massachusetts  still  has  thousands  of 
acres  of  waste  land ;  its  commerce  is  not  holding 
its  own ;  its  traffic  along  railroad  lines  is  grad 
ually  being  "side-tracked";  its  fisheries  are 
being  rivalled. 

The  New  England  that  our  forefathers  opened 
up,  the  New  England  that  our  fathers  devel- 


OUTLOOK  83 

oped  has,  in  a  sense,  had  its  day.  It  is  subject, 
as  is  every  enterprise  of  settlement,  manufac 
tures,  mining,  agriculture,  to  the  law  of  dimin 
ishing  results ;  and  no  building  of  enormous 
docks,  no  extension  of  railroads,  no  forcing  of 
mill  industries,  will  aggrandize,  enrich  her,  or 
tempt  to  settlement.  Certain  sections  of  our 
own  country,  because  of  the  rapid  development 
of  the  whole  during  the  last  seventy-five  years, 
must  fall  by  their  own  weight.  The  balance  of 
sectional  development,  owing  to  the  pace  at 
which  this  continent  has  been  tracked  with 
railroads,  nerved  with  telegraph  and  telephone, 
quarried  and  mined,  has  been  unsettled. 

7- 

The  history  of  this  island  will  be,  I  believe, 
an  epitome  of  the  history  of  New  England. 

Thomas  Macy,  one  of  its  original  purchasers 
and  one  of  the  first  three  settlers,  left  Salisbury, 
not  that  he  was  persecuted,  but  because  in  his 
own  words,  "he  could  not  in  justice  to  his  con 
science  longer  submit  to  the  tyranny  of  the 
clergy  and  those  in  authority."  This  is  an  echo 


84  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  and,  heard  as  early  as 
1659,  indicates  the  tyranny  of  the  Puritan 
theocracy. 

There  followed  slow  development,  slow  in 
coming  of  others  who  sought  this  refuge  for 
other  reasons,  perhaps  as  potent.  In  the  course 
of  a  century  the  whale  fisheries  made  known  the 
island  to  the  world,  and  its  merchant-ships  and 
whalers  were  found  in  every  port.  The  popu 
lation  increased  rapidly  because  of  prosperity. 
Prosperity,  dependent  on  the  demand  for  a 
world  supply  of  its  commodity,  waxed  because 
of  that  demand  for  the  island's  particular  prod 
uct.  In  the  middle  of  the  last  century  sperm 
oil  gave  place  to  crude  petroleum ;  the  opening 
of  the  first  oil  well  wrote  "the  end"  for  Nan- 
tucket's  extensive  maritime  interests.  Business 
stagnation  followed.  Its  people  migrated. 
Grass  grew  in  the  cobble-paved  streets. 

As  a  child,  I  came  once  to  it  from  the  Cape, 
and  for  one  night.  There  has  remained  with 
me  the  impression  of  foggy  drowsiness,  of  the 
absence  of  life  in  the  streets  and  little  lanes,  of 
the  salt  marshes  at  low  tide,  and  of  a  quaint 


OUTLOOK  85 

home  in  an  alley  where  my  mother,  aunt,  and 
I  were  made  welcome.  I  recall  the  mustiness 
of  the  tiny  rooms,  the  oily  smell  from  a  kerosene 
lamp,  the  all-pervasive  air  of  another-world- 
ness  than  that  to  which  I  was  accustomed. 

Now,  after  these  many  years  I  am  here  again 
—  at  home.  The  streets  are  lively  with  a  life 
foreign  to  me.  The  bay  is  dotted  with  the 
boats  of  scallop  and  quahaug  fishermen.  One 
winter  day  three  years  ago  I  counted  twenty- 
one  sail  coming  down  from  the  upper  harbor. 
Now,  after  so  short  a  time,  I  rarely  see  a  fisher 
man's  sail ;  only  power  boats  are  at  work  with 
drag  and  rake  and  dredge.  The  quaint  houses, 
the  quiet,  picturesque  lanes  are  still  here,  but 
every  house  available  seems  to  have  been  bought 
by  the  "off-islanders". 

The  spring,  summer,  autumn,  see  another 
life,  and  the  population  exceeds  by  thousands 
that  of  the  island  in  its  most  prosperous  days. 

This  is  the  redintegration  of  this  Island  Out 
post.  In  the  century  to  come  I  foresee  some 
thing  of  the  same  process  for  our  old  New 
England. 


86  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

8. 

One  must  have  lived  away  from  this  section 
of  the  country  for  some  years  to  realize  this. 
One  must  have  lived  in  the  great  centre  of  the 
Mississippi  Valley,  that  enormous  granary  of  a 
continent,  to  understand  the  significance  of 
Cobden's  words:  "Here  will  one  day  be  the 
headquarters  of  agriculture  and  manufacturing 
industry ;  here  will  one  day  centre  the  civiliza 
tion,  the  wealth,  the  power  of  the  entire  world." 

9- 

We  need,  also,  to  saturate  our  minds  with 
national  facts,  economic,  climatic,  racial,  and 
historical,  as  well  as  acquaint  ourselves  with 
the  ideals  of  those  three  great  states  on  the 
Pacific  Coast  and  of  that  empire  on  the  divide 
and  slopes  of  the  Rockies  —  Montana.  Its 
eastern  foothills,  alone,  will  yield  in  the  future 
sustenance  for  millions. 

We  need  to  look  farther  in  order  to  see  more 
clearly  and  deeper  into  our  national  life  and  its 
mainsprings;  to  remind  ourselves  oftener  that 


OUTLOOK  87 

although  New  Englanders,  we  are  something 
more  —  and  all  the  time  something  more,  not 
merely  at  elections  or  in  national  crises ;  that 
we  are  citizens  of  a  great  republic  which  seeks 
its  sources  of  vitality  among  all  sorts  and  con 
ditions  of  men  who  find  themselves  in  a  won 
derful  country  of  possibilities,  known  as  yet  to 
comparatively  few  among  the  working  mil 
lions. 

Homogeneity,  the  old  racial  status  of  New 
England,  works  intensely  in  one  direction  and 
in  the  interest  of  the  special  race.  Hetero 
geneity,  the  present  racial  status  of  our  entire 
country,  works  diversely,  more  slowly,  but  none 
the  less  powerfully  towards  the  common  interest 
of  the  Race. 

We  shall  come  to  recognize  —  and  without 
such  great  periodical  discouragement,  without 
such  spasmodic  despair  when  we  fail  in  reaching 
the  special  local  goal  we  have  in  view  —  that 
in  the  course  of  historical  development  which, 
in  the  end,  is  economic  development,  for  a  grow 
ing  nation's  history  follows  the  lines  of  its  food 
supplies,  that  we  are  getting  out  of  the  current, 


88  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

not  crowded  out,  —  a  condition  which  would 
permit  us  with  desperate  struggle  to  get  in  again, 
—  but  that,  sectionally,  we  are  economically 
and,  I  dare  assert,  educationally  devolving. 

10. 

I  wish  I  had  a  little  influence  with  the  Board 
of  Overseers  of  Harvard  !  If  I  had,  I  would 
urge  them  to  appropriate  the  interest  of  some 
of  their  available  millions  to  the  founding  of 
travelling  scholarships  exclusively  in  our  own 
country. 

The  students  obtaining  them  should  visit 
the  universities  of  the  states,  the  mines,  mills, 
plantations,  agricultural  schools,  reservoirs, 
dams,  docks.  They  should  acquaint  them 
selves  with  the  country's  watersheds,  with  the 
methods  of  irrigation.  They  should  know  the 
forest  slopes  of  the  Sierras  and  Cascades,  as 
well  as  the  muskeg  and  black  spruce  of  Minne 
sota.  They  should  know  the  Great  Lakes,  and 
their  traffic  undreamed  of  by  Easterners.  They 
should  know  the  great  civic  centres  and  the 
loggers'  camps  of  north  and  south,  east  and 


OUTLOOK  89 

west.  They  should  note  the  direction  of  the 
great  streams  of  immigration,  their  diversion 
and  distribution  along  certain  lines  that  can  but 
be  affected  now  that  the  great  Canal  is  about 
to  divert  some  of  the  over-seas  humanity  to 
the  Pacific  Coast. 

Nor  should  they  be  content  with  noting  the 
direction  of  the  greater  affluents  of  this  immi 
gration  stream.  They  should  note  carefully 
the  little  rills  of  immigrant  labor  with  their 
tiny  irrigation  gates  in  mountain  village, 
prairie  settlement,  or  sea-coast  hamlet;  they 
should  take  note  even  of  the  "seep". 

Then  this  old  New  England,  into  the  heritage 
of  which  some  of  them  may  have  been  born, 
will  assume  in  their  eyes  its  rightful  proportions 
in  the  scheme  of  "things  as  they  are"  in  our 
United  States.  With  no  less  loyalty  to  her 
three  hundred  years  of  history,  her  traditions, 
her  accomplishments  in  the  past,  but  with  in 
creased  power  to  understand  the  accurate  di 
mensions  of  the  part  she  is  to  play  in  the  future 
of  the  nation's  life,  —  its  councils,  its  economics, 
its  perils,  and  prosperity,  —  they  will  enter  into 


90  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

her  service  equipped  in  a  measure  to  avoid  for 
themselves  and  their  children  disheartening  illu 
sions  ;  to  interpret  to  another  generation  her 
waning  powers  and  to  determine  the  lines  of 
her  redintegration. 

That  man  who  has  studied  at  first  hand  his 
country's  racial  necessities,  and  her  natural 
endowments  for  the  supply  of  those  necessities, 
will  render  better  service  as  a  citizen,  will  be 
better  prepared  to  direct  New  England's  energy, 
into  what  channels  soever  it  shall  be  diverted, 
through  understanding  and  accepting  the  fact 
that  the  New  England  of  the  past  three  cen 
turies,  the  standard-bearer  for  the  colonies, 
many  times  voice  and  guide  for  a  young  nation, 
breeder  of  sons  that  colonized  in  the  west, 
pioneer  in  industrialism,  is  now,  in  all  truth, 
an  old  New  England  that  is  but  a  small  part  of 
a  great  National  Whole  the  ideals  for  which 
are  to  be  sought  and  found  among  its  youth  in 
the  Great  West. 

And  this  is  as  it  should  be. 


VII 


CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS 
I. 

THEY  are  so  wide-reaching  that  even  the  sea, 
bounding  them  on  the  east,  west,  and  south, 
seems  not  to  confine  but  to  enlarge  them.  One 
is  apt  to  think  them  stable  of  aspect  until  one 
has  lived  with  them  intimately;  then  one  real 
izes  that  they  have  many  moods  and  tenses. 

During  the  four  years  of  my  residence  here 
they  have  acquired,  in  my  thought  at  least,  the 
charm  of  a  strong  personality  that,  as  yet,  has 
not  wholly  revealed  itself  to  me  nor,  it  may  be, 
ever  will.  This  is  one  of  the  sources  of  their 
charm.  They  allure,  yet  baffle ;  they  take  you 
into  their  confidence  but  always  with  reserve 
and  a  hint  of  "more  if  they  would".  It  has  its 
secrets,  this  moorland  which  is  the  creation 
primarily  of  a  continental  ice-sheet,  and  it  with 
holds  them  from  all  who  have  not  the  fine  hear 
ing  ear,  the  seeing  eye,  the  understanding  heart 

91 


92  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

for  this  special  expression  of  nature.  It  will 
reveal  itself,  and  then  but  in  part,  only  to  its 
lovers,  and  even  to  them  in  unexpected  moods. 

You  wander  out  a  mile  or  two  over  their 
seemingly  monotonous  stretches,  and  suddenly 
you  are  aware  that  there  is  buoyancy  in  your 
walk;  the  closely  matted  surface  of  the  meal- 
plum  vines,  that  cover  them,  fairly  springs 
beneath  your  feet.  You  mount  one  of  the  many 
soft,  rounded  breasts  —  those  innumerable 
swells  of  the  moorland  —  to  look  about  you  on 
an  afternoon  in  July. 

There  may  be  no  wind  which  is  an  exceptional 
condition  here  of  the  air  at  all  seasons.  Then 
there  is  a  quiet  abroad  that  is  the  distilled 
spirit  of  calm ;  not  even  the  hum  of  a  bee  is 
heard,  not  the  stirring  of  an  insect's  wing. 
The  sunshine  filters  through  a  light  haze  that 
amplifies  the  distance,  and  the  great  moor- 
mother  basks  in  it,  offering  her  warm  breasts 
to  those  of  the  earth-children  who  seek  her.  A 
natural  peace  broods  both  body  and  soul. 

It  is  well  to  let  nature  work  her  will  with  us 
on  such  a  day,  in  such  a  place. 


CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS         93 
2. 

Over  westwards  there  is  a  tiny  house  hunched 
against  one  of  these  moorland  swells.  It  is 
protected  on  the  north  by  this  rise  of  land.  The 
west  and  south  lie  wholly  open  to  it.  I  should 
like  to  own  it  that  I  might  see  from  its  windows 
the  approach  of  those  wondrous  storm-clouds 
from  the  southwest  that  in  huge,  riven  masses, 
their  dark  edges  frayed,  bear  rapidly  continent- 
wards.  They  cloak  the  firmament  with  their 
voluminous  swinging  folds.  Their  trailing  skirts 
efface  the  dun-colored,  low-lying  moors,  levelling 
and  blotting  out.  They  sweep  unendingly,  so  it 
appears  to  one  watching,  at  the  rate  of  thirty 
miles  an  hour,  out  of  the  watery  wastes  and 
over  this  island  toward  the  mainland. 

At  such  times  I  am  permitted  to  see  the  storm 
clouds  at  work  between  the  vast  of  the  deep  and 
the  vast  of  the  sky.  I  see  the  strain  and  the 
travail  for  they  are  heavy  with  rain,  the  tortuous 
upward  twist  of  the  gigantic,  wind-driven  masses 
in  their  onward  rush  landwards. 

This  great  natural   arena  for  this  elemental 


94  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

wrestling  match  is  best  seen,  I  believe,  from  the 
Nantucket  moors. 

3- 

They  hold  constant  surprises  for  those  who 
frequent  them.  One  may  come  unexpectedly 
on  a  tiny  cup-like  hollow  among  the  soft, 
moorland  breasts.  It  is  filled  with  clear  water 
that  floats  dark  green,  leathery  lily  pads,  and 
white  lilies  open  wide  to  the  August  sun.  Sur 
rounding  it  is  a  low  irregular  coppice  of  wild 
roses  in  bloom.  Incense  of  water  lilies,  the 
spicy  fragrance  of  the  wild  rose,  and,  for  an 
added  sensuous  delight,  the  breeze  coming  in 
from  the  near-by  ocean  and  stirring  a  petal  ,here 
and  there. 

4- 

But  oh,  the  marshes  on  their  borders,  where 
the  shy  wild  life  lives  for  a  while  and  feeds  ! 
Wild  land  about  pond  and  pool  —  peat-bog, 
and  hummock,  marsh  and  reedy  inlet  filled 
from  the  largess  of  the  adjoining  sea ;  wild 
November  skies  and  the  hoarse  kruk  of  coot, 
the  scream  of  gulls  flying  high  over  the  island  ! 


CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS        95 

5- 

On  ordinary  starlight  nights  the  moors  are 
never  dark.  There  is  a  curious  atmospheric 
luminosity  about  them  that  gives  the  impres 
sion  of  great  enclosed  space  —  the  unbroken 
arch  of  the  sky  is  responsible  for  that  —  illu 
mined  dimly  from  beneath.  Something  of  the 
same  effect  can  be  seen  across  the  dunes  of  Hol 
land.  I  suppose  it  is  a  matter  of  refracted  light 
from  the  circumambient  waters  of  the  ocean. 

Those  are  nights  to  be  remembered  when 
in  the  early  evening  the  new  moon  and  Venus, 
apparently  within  its  curve,  are  setting  together 
in  the  clear  dark  beyond  the  line  of  the  moors 
where  the  ocean  bounds  them. 

I  keep  certain  joys  for  myself  in  anticipation ; 
it  is  one  of  my  life's  best  assets.  Sometime  in 
the  April  of  1914,  I  mean  to  see  Orion  wheel 
slowly  down  the  dark  expanse  of  moorland  and 
sink  at  last,  star  by  star — flash  of  Rigel,  gleam 
of  Betelgeux  —  into  the  Atlantic. 

As  for  nights  of  full  moon,  there  is  enough 
light  focussed  on  this  island  to  supply  an 


96  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

archipelago.     Then  even  the  moors  partake  of 
the  glamour  of  the  silvered  sea. 

6. 

"What  must  it  be  like  in  such  a  soft  dark  night 
out  there  on  the  moors  where,  westwards, 
never  a  beacon  shines  from  home  or  lighthouse 
tower  ?" 

This  I  ask  myself  when  I  stand  at  the  open 
door  and  listen  to  the  unbroken,  heavy  undertone 
of  seas  pounding  on  the  south  shore.  On  such 
a  dark  night,  for  instance,  as  I  last  stood  in  the 
open  doorway  listening  to  that  marvellously 
deep  basal  note,  with  which  was  mingled  from 
time  to  time  strange  overtones,  and  wondering 
that  the  impetus  of  those  heavy  seas,  the  after 
math  of  some  terrific  storm  far,  far  away  on 
the  Atlantic,  did  not  carry  them  across  the  isl 
and  to  mingle  with  the  quiet  harbor  waters. 

This  low,  far-away  booming  of  surf  is  seldom 
heard  in  the  town ;  the  conditions  for  it  are 
rarely  combined.  To  produce  it  there  must 
have  been  a  severe  storm  somewhere  to  the 
south  of  us  on  the  Atlantic ;  the  night  must  be 


CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS         97 

practically   windless,   or  with   a   gentle   steady 
breeze  from  the  same  point  of  compass. 

At  such  times,  in  the  soft  dark,  under  clouded 
skies,  the  moors  must  reveal  another  world 
to  him  who  seeks  them.  The  eye  must  first 
of  all  accustom  itself  to  the  impenetrable  dark 
ness.  The  ear  must  wont  itself  to  the  constant 
terrific  roar  and  boom  of  surf  breaking  along 
fifteen  miles  of  sand  beach ;  the  mind  adjust 
itself  subjectively,  of  necessity.  Thoughts  crowd 
the  consciousness  in  such  an  hour,  in  such  a 
place.  There  is  a  blind  groping,  a  vain  Jsearch- 
ing  of  the  spirit,  a  realization  of  its  impotence 
in  that  universal  dark. 

What  a  beacon  to  our  very  soul  if  on  the 
benighted  sight  the  glowing  twinkle  of  one 
firefly  should  break  suddenly  against  the  sur 
rounding  blackness  ! 

7- 

There  is  but  one  perfect  epic  for  such  a  dark 
ness,  for  such  a  night ;  one  perfect  expression  of 
the  thoughts  such  an  environment  must  en 
gender  :  Hellen  Keller's  "Chant  of  Dark 


ness" 


98  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

"Out  of  the  uncharted  and  unthinkable  dark  we  come, 
And  in  a  little  while  we  shall  return  again 
Into  the  vast,  unanswering  dark." 

This  would  be  the  moorland's  hymn  on  such 
a  night,  and  its  accompaniment  the  deep  diapa 
son  of  breaking  seas. 

8. 

I  confess  I  find  a  certain  satisfaction  in 
materializing  anticipated  joys,  or  good  inten 
tions,  by  writing  them  out ;  it  is  a  process  of 
anticipatory  realization.  I  find  I  am  saved 
many  disenchantments  thereby. 

Now  I  know  perfectly  well  that  were  I  to  go 
out  alone  into  the  darkness  on  the  moors,  — 
provided  I  could  gain  courage  to  get  beyond 
the  town,  —  I  should  find  it  infinitely  "poky" 
in  that  dark ;  and  I  have  a  woman's  horror 
of  finding  myself  alone  in  a  "dark  poky  place  ". 
Nor  do  I  doubt  that  if,  by  a  supreme  effort 
of  will  and  groping  along  that  rutted  sand-road, 
I  could  place  myself  well  for  observing  the 
effect  of  such  surroundings  on  my  consciousness, 
—  for,  of  course,  there  would  be  nothing  to  see 
objectively,  —  I  should  promptly  relight  the 


CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS        99 

lantern  I  had  but  just  extinguished  and,  with 
out  making  many  particular  thoughts  on  eter 
nity,  infinity,  or  various  conceptions  of  the 
universe,  turn  my  steps  homeward  with  an 
alacrity  wholly  inconsistent  with  certain 
cherished  ideals. 

This  confession  must  be  made  if  section  7 
is  allowed  to  stand ;  and  stand  it  shall  because 
of  that  wonderful  chant  by  a  woman  who, 
born  into  physical  darkness,  has  attained  never 
theless  to  such  dazzling  illumination  of  soul 
that  to  us,  marvelling,  her  whole  existence 
seems  at  times  "dark  through  excess  of  light ". 

9- 

FEBRUARY,  1910. 

I  have  been  out  on  the  moors  for  two  of  the 
morning  hours.  During  the  night  there  was  a 
fine  fall  of  snow  over  the  island.  It  fell  quietly, 
without  heavy  wind  to  drift  it.  At  sunrise  I 
was  introduced  to  another  world. 

It  is  a  fact  that  because  the  winds  are  so 
strong  and  constant  here  at  all  times,  much  of 
the  snow  is  blown  over  and  off  the  island. 


ioo  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

This  statement  was  made  to  me  when  I  came, 
and  left  me  sceptical.  I  have  since  verified  it. 
The  storms  that  leave  even  a  little  depth  of 
snow,  and  for  only  a  day  or  two,  can  be  counted 
on  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 

On  this  particular  morning,  at  nine  o'clock, 
the  sun,  although  not  high,  was  both  brilliant 
and  warm,  the  sky  a  more  intense  blue  than  I 
have  ever  seen  it  except  in  January  in  Italy. 
From  a  swell  of  the  moors,  beyond  the  forking 
of  the  western  end  of  the  long  main  street,  I 
could  see  to  south  and  west  for  miles  across 
the  undulating  white  expanse.  In  the  south 
a  line  of  deep  indigo  defined  the  ocean  bound  of 
the  besnowed  island.  To  the  west  stretched  a 
magic  land  all  sparkle  and  gleam  and  glitter, 
its  white  swells  catching  every  beam  of  high 
light.  The  hollows  between  them  were  filled 
with  a  myriad  soft  shadowy  hints  of  every 
nuance  of  violet  and  purple. 

Below  me,  in  the  lee  of  the  little  hill,  a  small 
herd  of  cows  was  nipping  at  the  tips  of  the  dried 
grass  pricking  through  the  light  covering  of 
snow.  Evaporation  had  begun  already,  for 


CERTAIN  MOODS  OF  THE  MOORS       ita* 

here  and  there  the  air  ran  quivering  to  and  fro 
over  certain  sun-beshone  lowlands.  The  gray 
walls  of  the  great  water-tower  in  the  foreground 
accented  the  dazzling  whiteness. 

Oh,  the  charm  of  all  this  in  its  lowly  way  ! 


VIII 

MY   MAIL 
I. 

WE  have  a  really  delightful  little  steamer, 
a  propeller,  that  in  the  winter  months  braves 
almost  any  weather  to  keep  us  in  touch  with  the 
mainland.  It  is  one  of  the  island's  best  assets 
but,  unfortunately,  not  always  available  owing 
to  heavy  storms  and  stress  of  high  winds  com 
bined  with  tides. 

At  first  I  used  to  please  myself  with  the 
thought  that  the  daily  arrival  of  the  boat  would 
keep  me  posted  concerning  affairs  on  our  con 
tinent  and  the  interests  of  my  special  friends.  I 
was  fond  of  quoting  —  to  myself  naturally  —  as 
I  watched  the  boat  make  its  way  into  the 

harbor  : 

"Every  day  brings  a  ship, 
Every  ship  brings  a  word ; 
Well  for  those  who  have  no  fear, 
Looking  seaward  well  assured, 
That  the  word  the  vessel  brings 
Is  the  word  they  wish  to  hear." 
102 


MY  MAIL  103 

This  was  satisfying  as  a  bit  of  pure  sentiment, 
but  I  soon  found  that  it  was  a  sentimental 
fallacy.  The  word  about  town,  "No  boat  for 
Nantucket  to-day",  quenches  both  hope  and 
sentiment  in  regard  to  a  dependable  daily  mail. 
I  have  seen  the  time  when  if  we  were  so  fortunate 
as  to  receive  it  once  in  seven  days,  I  was  de 
voutly  thankful.  In  justice  I  must  add  that 
this  state  of  things  has  obtained  but  once  during 
my  four  years  of  residence. 

But  what  added  zest  it  gives  to  read  the 
letters  that  have  been  delayed  in  transmission, 
if  only  for  one  day  !  What  a  goodly  pile  I  am 
apt  to  find  in  the  mail  basket,  followed  next 
morning  by  the  second  delivery  —  books,  news 
papers,  magazines,  and  delightful  remembrances 
from  various  quarters  of  the  globe.  Why,  only 
the  other  day,  all  Norway  came  over  in  the 
Sankaty,  the  boat  at  present  in  service. 

Ever  since  I  knew  that  country  to  be  a  geo 
graphical  fact,  I  have  dreamed  of  it ;  hoped  to 
visit  it ;  delighted  myself  with  imaginative 
pictures  of  it  —  the  winters  in  particular  :  its 
snow-covered  mountains,  crystal  fjords,  pine 


104  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

forests  ice  and  snow  laden,  the  strange  light  of 
its  partially  sunless  days,  the  long  twilights, 
the  ethereal  dawns.  By  way  of  contrast,  I 
like  to  imagine  the  midnight  sun  shining  on 
the  peaks  of  the  northern  islands,  the  high  light 
on  mountain  pastures,  the  deep  shadows  in 
the  valleys,  and  behold  !  —  here  they  are  in 
the  mail,  having  crossed  the  North  Sea,  the 
Atlantic  Ocean,  and  Nantucket  Sound  to  reach 
me  from  Christiania.  There  are  fifty-four  im 
pressions  from  large  photographs  :  among  them 
the  midnight  sun  on  the  Lyngen  fjord,  the 
Lofoten  islands,  the  august  Saldul  Gate,  Gausta, 
the  Isterdel  Peaks,  Romsdalshorn  —  yes,  and 
Gjende,  the  mountain  tarn  in  Jotunheim,  and 
the  ridge  of  the  same  name  along  which  Peer 
Gynt  sped  on  the  reindeer's  back  ! 

In  addition  I  possess  a  letter  of  sixteen  pages 
from  the  sender  of  the  gift,  a  Norwegian  lady  — 
an  English  letter,  perfect  as  to  script,  grammar, 
phrasing,  and  expression.  She  writes  :  "I  am 
fifty  years  old,  and  since  I  was  fourteen,  I  have 
taken  the  greatest  interest  in  English  literature 
and  of  late  in  the  American  also.  I  know  both 


MY  MAIL  105 

Emerson  and  Thoreau,  and  some  of  the  new 
novelists.  Of  poets,  I  know  chiefly  Longfellow, 
Whittier,  and  Whitman." 

Reading  this  I  feel  as  if  I  knew  not  one  iden 
tical  thing  about  anything !  Why  haven't  I 
learned  Norwegian  in  all  these  years  ?  Why  have 
I  contented  myself  with  translations  either  in 
English  or  German  of  Frithjof 's  Saga,  of  Bjornson 
and  Ibsen  ?  Why  haven't  /  five  Norwegian 
authors  read  in  the  vernacular  to  my  credit  ? 

Possibly,  only  possibly,  if  I  had  really  liked 
Ibsen  as  I  like  Goethe,  I  might  have  been 
tempted  to  acquire  a  reading  knowledge  of  the 
Norse  for  the  sake  of  the  richness  of  rhyme 
and  the  lightness  of  rhythm  in  his  poetic  master 
pieces.  But  I  did  not  like  him,  do  not  like  him, 
and  never  shall  like  him.  I  think  I  have  good 
reason  for  these  various  tenses  of  negative 
dislike,  but  I  dare  not  tell  this  to  the  lady  in 
Christiania  —  not  yet ! 

2. 

It  is  a  reproach  against  us  in  general  that, 
because  we  are  women,  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  be 


io6  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

"fair",  as  the  children  say.  By  which  is  meant, 
presumably,  that  our  emotional  natures,  our 
quicker  if  less  firmly  grounded  sympathies,  our 
strong  advocacy  of  a  cause  without  intensive 
working  over  the  reasons  for  our  advocacy, 
our  transient,  indiscriminate  adoption  of  new 
ideas  and,  to  the  masculine  mind,  our  inconse 
quent  action  in  grave  affairs  without  so  much 
as  a  "buffer"  of  reason  between  us  and  calamity, 
pervert  the  judgment  and  dethrone  justice. 

I  suppose  it  is  all  true  —  indeed,  I  do  not  quite 
see  how  we  should  be  women  at  all  without  these 
inconsistencies.  To  make  my  personal  con 
fession,  I  do  find  it  difficult  to  be  "fair",  but 
that  does  not  prevent  my  wanting  to  be  — 
oh,  so  fair  !  And  I  really  struggle,  desperately 
at  times,  to  appear  so  whether  I  am  or  not. 

Having  confessed  this  much,  it  would  seem 
that  a  further  confidence  might  be  in  place.  I 
have  a  "corrective"  for  all  my  "unfairnesses": 
I  wait,  simply  wait.  After  expressing  myself 
in  what  I  call  my  "sputter",  —  a  harmless 
enough  diatribe  in  regard  to  persons  and  things, 
—  I  feel  I  can  wait,  wait  patiently  a  month,  a 


MY  MAIL  107 

year,  a  decade,  a  quarter  of  a  century  if  neces 
sary,  to  be  shown  where  I  am  at  fault,  where  I 
have  not  been  "fair".  Life's  experience  is  my 
"corrective"  for  all  unfairness.  I  know  that, 
despite  any  will  of  mine,  it  must  modify  if  there 
be  anything  in  my  pronunciamento  to  be  modi 
fied  ;  that  it  will  clear  my  mental  atmosphere  of 
the  mists  of  prejudice  the  result  of  environment, 
heredity,  or  training ;  that  it  will  force  me  to  see 
that  what  is  heterodox  to  me  is  orthodox  to 
another. 

I  wait  —  and  Life  turns  a  corner,  suddenly 
perhaps,  and  I  see  as  suddenly  from  another 
point  of  view.  It  gains  a  height,  and  I  get  an 
inspiration  that  gives  me  insight  into  the  depths. 
It  adjusts  a  different  lens  to  my  eyes  by  which  I 
may  discern  the  right,  detect  the  wrong;  by 
which  I  mean  I  am  enabled  to  see  deep  enough 
into  the  verities  and  insincerities  that  underlie 
all  the  attempts  of  us  humans  to  express  our 
selves  in  this  world  whether  by  daily  living,  in 
what  way  soever  attainable,  or  along  certain 
lines  as  in  the  arts :  painting,  sculpture,  by  the 
written  thoughts  as  literature. 


io8  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

In  the  end,  I  am  made  to  do  justice  to  effort, 
not  the  result  of  that  effort ;  to  motives,  not  to 
movements  along  certain  unexpected  lines  of 
action  ;  to  accept  not  so  much  the  manifestations 
of  genius  as  the  intent  behind  their  expression. 

"Just  wait  awhile,"  I  say  to  myself,  "and 
despite  all  your  '  sputterings '  you  will  be 
'fair'  in  your  final  judgment.  You  can't  help 
being  fair  in  the  end,  for  Life's  experience  tills 
your  soul  whether  you  will  or  no ;  ploughs  and 
harrows,  and  sows  many  seeds  that  in  due  season 
ripen,  many  of  them,  to  a  harvest  of  tolerance." 

After  writing  that  decided  statement,  "I 
never  liked  Ibsen,  do  not  like  him,  and  never 
shall  like  him,"  I  held  my  pen  suspended  for  a 
moment,  questioning:  "Am  I  fair  in  saying 
that  ?  Am  I  not  allowing  the  prejudice  of 
fifteen  years'  standing  to  bias  that  statement  ? 
Is  not  the  disdain  with  which  I  re-read  his  works 
four  years  ago  distorting  my  point  of  view, 
discoloring  what  is  seen  from  it  ?" 

3- 

I  took  out  a  note-book,  —  like  all  my  intended 
note-books  four  fifths  of  the  pages  are  blank  and 


MY  MAIL  109 

the  notes  on  the  remaining  fifth  disjointed  in  the 
extreme,  —  and  am  copying  some  of  my  "sput- 
terings"  about  Ibsen's  works  which  in  the 
winter  of  1909-1910  I  re-read  to  get  an  idea  of 
his  powers.  Here  they  are.  They  show  pretty 
conclusively  how  I  felt  towards  them  after  a 
"wait"  of  eleven  years.  Evidently  that  length 
of  time  had  not  cleared  the  atmosphere  for  me. 
And  I  do  so  want  to  be  fair ! 

"Ibsen  —  the  spectacle  !  The  freedom  ( ?)  of 
Nietzsche  become  here  an  obsession. 

"Compare  sanity  of  Meredith,  of  Stevenson. 

"What  healthy  work  there  is  in  Genesis 
compared  with  this  ! 

"The  ideal  holds  the  truth  in  suspension. 
With  Ibsen  it  seems  to  be  ideals  versus  truth. 
The  trouble  seems  to  be  that  he  has  laid  his 
foundation  stones  in  wrong  relation  to  the  super 
structure  —  en  delit,  as  is  said  of  the  quarried 
stratified  rocks  when  placed  in  the  walls  con 
trary  to  their  manner  of  lying  in  the  stratum. 

"Realism,  or  anything  else,  to  the  zero  power 
equals  one  —  the  '  I ',  one-self,  of  Ibsen  and 
Co.,  —  the  sick  ego. 


no  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

"Look  at  this  !  Ghosts  (morphia  —  insanity, 
heredity), —The  Wild  Duck  (pistol), —The 
Doll's  House  (threatened  suicide),  —  Rosmers- 
holm  (foot-bridge),  —  Hedda  Gabler  (pistol), 
—  Emperor  and  Galilean  (insanity). 

"  We  thrive  in  the  sunshine,  not  in  the  rainbow- 
hued  scum  of  putrescence.  True,  the  sunshine 
may  be  broken  by  a  medium  into  its  elemental 
colors  (oh,  the  unsavory  misuse  of  that  word 
*  elemental'  and  its  meaning  !),  but  the  rainbow 
colors  are  not  those  in  which  we  grow  and  thrive 
and  develop,  oh  no !  One-thoughted  men, 
obsessed  men,  are  apt  to  see  through  the  medium 
of  green,  red,  blue,  or  yellow,  and  the  readers 
of  their  works  see  life-facts  as  they  present 
them  colored  by  this  broken  prismatic  mentality. 
Hence  the  morbid  tendencies  (morbidus,  morbus, 
diseased,  unwholesome,  threatening  decay)  of 
Ibsen ;  hence  the  seeing  red  like  Nietzsche ; 
hence  yellow  like  — 

"Oh,  the  sunlit  clarity  of  a  Goethe,  the  whole 
some  sunshine  of  Shakespeare  !  Oh,  the  crystal 
sunniness  of  the  order  of  life  lived  by  the  God- 
Man  of  Galilee  !  No  wonder  that  so  many  of 


MY  MAIL  in 

these  modern  writers'  creations  cry  out  'The 
sun  —  the  sun '  —  '  Helios  —  Helios  ! '  They 
are  crying  for  what  humanity  cannot  do  with 
out.  That  cry,  at  least,  shows  common  sense. 

"In  the  prose  dramas,  Ibsen's  people  seem  to 
be  presented  as  if  suddenly  seized  with  cramps  — 
whether  mental,  moral,  or  physical  it  is  for  the 
audience  to  determine. 

"There  is  a  perverted  dreaming  that  gives  us 
Peer  Gynt.  There  is  another  dreaming  that 
gives  us  the  imagination  of  a  Newton  and  the 
law  of  gravitation." 

4- 

Re-reading  these  notes  after  four  years,  I 
say  to  myself:  "Now,  you  are  not  wholly  fair. 
Read  something  of  his  again ;  find  out  what 
Life  has  taught  you  in  these  forty-eight  months. " 

I  took  Peer  Gynt  and  read  it  straight  through 
at  one  sitting.  With  the  lovely  Norwegian 
scenes  before  my  eyes,  I  interpreted  that  wonder 
ful  first  act  very  differently.  Among  the  photo 
graphs  was  one  of  Lake  Gjende  in  Jotunheim. 
There  was  the  very  ridge,  the  arete,  of  those 
mountains  along  which  sped  the  reindeer  buck  on 


H2  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

his  mad  course,  carrying  Peer  Gynt  on  his  back, 
held  there  by  the  powerful  backward  thrust 
of  the  horns.  And  there  the  lake,  the  mountain 
tarn,  into  which  both  rider  and  buck  plunged 
to  meet  their  double  in  the  clear  dark  of  its 
waters  ! 

I  began  to  live  with  Peer  and  his  mother  Ase ; 
and  when  we  begin  to  live  in  the  experience  of 
another's  narrative,  whether  real  or  imagined, 
we  become  necessarily  one  of  it  and  with  it. 
We  no  longer  see  it  with  our  eyes,  but  through 
those  of  the  actors  in  it.  Not  until  then  can  we 
in  the  least  degree  judge  of  the  intention  of  the 
creator.  When  we  live,  even  in  sympathetic 
imagination,  through  the  experience  of  another, 
whether  that  life-experience  be  fiction  or  truth, 
then  for  the  first  time  we  are  freed  from  prejudice, 
are  ready  to  do  justice  to  effort  irrespective  of 
result. 

"  Have  you  ever 

Chanced  to  see  the  Gendin-Edge  ? 

Nigh  on  four  miles  long  it  stretches 

Sharp  before  you  like  a  scythe. 

Down  o'er  glaciers,  landslips,  screes, 

Down  the  toppling  gray  moraines, 


MY  MAIL  113 

You  can  see,  both  right  and  left, 
Straight  into  the  tarns  that  slumber, 
Black  and  sluggish,  more  than  seven 
Hundred  fathoms  deep  below  you. 
Right  along  the  edge  we  two 
Clove  our  passage  through  the  air." 

And  reading  on  and  on  I  live  the  experience 
of  this  strange  Peer  Gynt.  I  understand  his 
poorly  equipped  temperament,  the  rich  but 
flighty  imagination — a  will-o'-the-wisp  for  the 
shifting  desires — the  weakness  of  his  will,  the 
purposelessness  of  a  life  begotten  on  the  one 
hand  in  drunkenness  and  on  the  other  fos 
tered  by  the  pathetic,  imaginative  nature  of  his 
poor,  peasant  mother. 

Ah,  that  mother's  death !  Never  have  I 
read  a  more  heart-rending  scene.  I  see  the 
miserable,  despoiled  hut  on  the  mountain,  the 
boards  for  couch,  the  fur  robe,  and  the  son, 
but  just  returned  from  his  wanderings,  drawing 
upon  his  most  vivid  and  powerful  fancies  to 
help  tide  her  over  that  last  mortal  hour ! 

I  have  seen  Faust  given  on  the  Dresden 
stage  by  the  best  talent  in  Germany,  but  the 
prison  scene  cannot  compare  with  this,  nor  can 


ii4  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

those  last  words,   "She  is  saved",   ring  more 
true  than  the  simple  words  of  the  peasant  wife, 
Solveig,  who,  waiting  years  for  Peer's  return, 
answers  to  his  cry : 
Hast  thou  doom  for  a  sinner,  then  speak  it  forth ! 

SOLVEIG 

He  is  here  !     He  is  here  !     Oh,  to  God  be  the  praise  ! 

(Stretches  out  her  arms  as  though  groping  for  him.) 

PEER 
Cry  out  all  my  sins  and  trespasses. 

SOLVEIG 

In  nought  hast  thou  sinned,  oh,  my  only  boy. 

(Gropes  for  him,  and  finds  him.) 

******* 

PEER 
Canst  thou  tell  where  Peer  Gynt  has  been  since  we  parted  ? 

SOLVEIG 
Been? 

PEER 

With  his  destiny's  seal  on  his  brow ; 
Been,  as  in  God's  thought  he  first  sprang  forth  ! 
Canst  thou  tell  me  ?     If  not,  I  must  get  me  home,  — 
Go  down  to  the  mist-shrouded  regions. 


MY  MAIL  115 

SOLVEIG 

(Smiling) 
Oh,  that  riddle  is  easy. 

PEER 

Then  tell  what  thou  knowest ! 

Where  was  I,  as  myself,  as  the  whole  man,  the  true  man  ? 

Where  was  I,  with  God's  sigil  on  my  brow  ? 

SOLVEIG 
In  my  faith,  in  my  hope,  in  my  love. 

******* 

PEER 

My  mother,  my  wife ;  oh,  thou  innocent  woman  !  — 
In  thy  love  —  oh,  there  hide  me,  hide  me  ! 

(Clings  to  her  and  hides  his  face  in  her  lap.) 

SOLVEIG 
(Singing  softly) 

Sleep  thou,  dearest  boy  of  mine  ! 

I  will  cradle  thee,  I  will  watch  thee  — 

Yes,  Life  has  taught  me  in  these  last  four 
years.  I  understand  Peer  Gynt ;  and  in  nothing 
he  has  written  has  Ibsen  seen  more  deeply 
and  more  "musically"  into  life  than  in  this 
reading  of  a  woman's  love.  When  deepest 


ii6  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

and  truest,  there  is  in  it  always  something  of 
the  maternal. 

Yet  Mr.  Shaw  affirms  :  "  No  man  will  ever 
write  a  better  .  .  .  comedy  than  .  .  .  Peer 
Gynt."  The  italics  are  mine. 


In  the  prose  dramas  I  still  see  the  "cramps"  — 
certain  men  and  women  galvanized  into  a 
semblance  of  life.  Doubtless  this  is  artistry; 
but  I  see  the  wires  that  are  manipulated  to 
produce  the  convulsive  movements  and,  in 
consequence,  I  find  no  true  art. 

I  believe  that  Ibsen's  enduring  fame  will  rest 
on  "The  Pretenders"  and  "Peer  Gynt". 

/ 
6. 

But  to  my  mail.  Here  is  a  package  from  far 
away  India  ;  there  are  only  a  few  words  with  it, 
but  a  whole  "travelogue"  in  the  fifty  postal 
cards.  For  this  evening  I  am  there  —  the  breadth 
of  two  continents  distant  from  Norway. 

I  have  to  laugh  at  myself  and  our  strictly 
up-to-date  Bostonians  over  the  manner  in  which 


MY  MAIL  117 

we  "tackled"  India  in  the  time  of  Mozoomdar  ! 
In  my  youth,  after  the  true  Bostonese  manner, 
I  proceeded  to  ransack  Bates  Hall  for  works  on 
India.  I  wonder  now  how  in  that  young  youth, 
with  a  vivacity  of  temperament  and  keen 
joy  in  life  that  forbade  any  introspection,  I 
absorbed,  or  seemed  to,  those  works.  At  the 
finish  —  I  think  this  special  cult  lasted  with  me 
about  five  months  —  it  is  no  matter  for  wonder 
ment  that  I  did  not  know  (I  must  use  a  slang 
phrase  just  here,  for  no  other  expresses  the  con 
dition  of  mind)  "where  I  was  at"  ! 

Goodness,  what  a  list  —  for  youth  !  Had 
I  not  found  last  year  another  of  those  note 
books  in  the  attic  of  our  mountain  home,  I 
should  never  have  remembered  that  I  had  so 
much  as  touched  India  "esoterically".  I  find 
I  accomplished  "Esoteric  Buddhism",  —  a  clear 
waste  of  precious  youth,  —  and  through  Max 
Muller,  something  of  the  Vedas,  the  Zendavesta 
and  the  Mahabharata,  and  "India,  What  Can 
It  Teach  Us?",  "The  Oriental  Christ",  and 
"Faith  and  Progress  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj", 
and  what  more  I  have  not  listed. 


ii8  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

Although  I  have  forgotten  all  this,  I  feel  that 
I  know  India  through  two  books,  one  poem, 
one  Tale,  a  statue,  and  a  woman. 

A  "Life  of  Buddha",  in  German,  a  marvel 
lous  record  of  a  marvellous  life,  interpretive  in  a 
way  of  that  most  wonderful  Life  of  the  New 
Testament. 

One  poem  by  Goethe,  "Der  Gott  und  die 
Bayadere".  All  India's  martyrdom  of  woman 
hood  is  in  it ;  all  the  glory  of  its  sacrificial  love, 
and  its  divine  reward  even  to  the  outcast. 

My  third  is,  of  course,  "Kim";  and  the  one 
Tale,  "The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney". 
I  read  in  some  paper  the  other  day  —  the  New 
York  Post,  I  think  —  a  conversation  with 
Kipling  in  which  he  said  that  Mulvaney  was 
dead.  He  must  have  been  mistaken.  Mul 
vaney  is  one  of  the  Immortals ;  there  is  no 
death  for  such  as  he. 

This  is  the  India  I  know.  I  am  very  grateful 
to  the  German  author,  to  Goethe  and  Kipling 
for  having  made  me  acquainted  with  it. 

Before  me  on  my  writing  table  is  a  Buddha ; 
it  is  about  eight  inches  high  and  sculptured  from 


MY  MAIL  119 

a  hard  red  stone  —  it  looks  to  be  a  kind  of 
porphyry.  This  is  overlaid  with  solid  beaten 
silver. 

When  I  was  a  small  child  of  eight,  a  mis 
sionary,  who  had  been  many  years  in  Burmah, 
was  for  a  few  days  a  guest  in  our  home.  She 
was  a  charming  woman,  with  an  abundance  of 
little,  brown  side-curls  that  bobbed  about, 
merry  eyes,  and  a  sweet  comfortable  voice. 
She  told  me  legends  of  India  and  stories  of 
Indian  children,  of  the  natives  rich  and  poor,  of 
elephants  and  their  wonderful  memory ;  of  her 
being  awakened  one  morning  by  what  seemed 
to  be  the  effect  of  a  prolonged  earthquake.  The 
ground  continuing  to  shake,  she  looked  out  of 
the  window  and  saw  forty  elephants  coming 
toward  the  house.  Each  elephant  carried  a 
log  for  building  purposes  in  his  trunk.  The 
natives  were  about  to  present  her  with  the 
Christmas  gift  of  a  new  house  of  worship,  the 
first  having  been  destroyed  by  fire. 

She  brought  with  her  this  Buddha  before  me. 
It  was  a  gift  to  my  father.  It  is  an  old  house 
hold  god  of  a  rich  family  who  abjured  their 


120  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

ancient  faith  for  the  new,  and  gave  the  symbol 
of  the  old  to  the  missionary  of  the  new. 

It  has  a  curious  effect  —  the  study  of  it. 
The  eyelids  are  half  closed.  But  if  you  examine 
the  statue  closely,  looking  up  under  those  full 
lids,  you  may  see  something  startling  :  the  god 
is  watching ;  he  is  mindful  of  all  that  transpires, 
externally,  internally.  Gaze  at  those  eyes 
steadily  for  a  minute  and  you  become  convinced 
that  he  knows  your  inmost  thought.  There  is 
an  inscrutable  smile  on  the  silver  lips,  —  not 
an  unpleasant  one,  —  and  a  quiet  and  repose  of 
feature  and  of  hands,  those  telltale  members  of 
god  or  human,  that  seem  far,  oh,  so  far  away 
from  —  trolleys,  for  instance,  from  automobiles, 
aeroplanes,  and  submarines. 

I  have  lived  in  his  presence  all  these  years, 
and  I  frankly  admit  it  is  a  beneficial  one.  The 
old  gods  are  to  be  revered  whether  Norse  or 
Indian.  They  are  forever  a  symbol  of  the  long 
ing  of  the  human  soul  to  express  a  spiritual  ideal. 

Perhaps  I  need  not  say  after  this  that  I  felt 
at  home  with  all  those  postal-card  scenes  from 
India, 


MY  MAIL  .-  121 

7- 

It  would  seem  as  if  this  island  acted  as  a 
centripetal  force  on  the  mail  from  other  islands, 
for  it  comes  to  me  from  Australia,  New  Zealand, 
from  England,  Japan,  or  Newport,  from  Ber 
muda  or  Cuba,  and  spurs  me  to  make  myself 
less  ignorant,  at  least  of  these  antipodal  islands. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  I  have  to  confess  that 
never,  never  by  any  forced  process  of  memorizing, 
or  by  long  gazing  at  the  map  of  Australia  can 
I  remember  to  name  properly  the  divisions  and 
their  capitals  ! 

But  that  emigrant  ship  from  England  carrying 
to  that  land  of  promise  dear  old  Peggotty,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Micawber,  all  the  blessed  contrari 
ness  of  Mrs.  Gummidge,  all  of  little  Emily's 
broken  heart  and  broken  life,  takes  me  forth 
with  to  that  island  continent.  When  I  was  a 
child  I  learned  by  heart  those  paragraphs 
which  include  the  description  of  the  sailing  of 
that  emigrant  ship.  It  is  one  of  the  best 
things  ever  written  by  Charles  Dickens's  always 
busy  pen. 


122  FROM  AN   ISLAND   OUTPOST 

And  then  Australia  is  very  real  to  me  through 
one  of  her  voices.  Australia  means  Melba 
and  all  the  hours  she  has  made  golden  for  me 
with  her  golden  voice.  Somehow,  I  always 
hear  the  whole  Australian  land  singing  with 
that  voice,  singing  its  way  up  from  a  life  begun 
in  wretchedness  into  the  light  of  a  golden  day. 

On  the  contrary,  I  never  think  of  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward  as  born  in  that  land.  Rather 
she  seems  a  product  of  some  Westminster- 
Catechism-bounded,  Church-of-England-over- 
shadowed,  Puseyism,  Newmanism,  Matthew 
Arnoldism  irrigated  desert  country  where  there 
are  no  heights  or  depths,  but  just  the  long 
parallel  irrigation  ditches  of  a  two-ideaed  doc 
trinaire  :  a  man's  soul  versus  the  strait  jacket 
of  the  Church,  a  man's  soul  versus  the  political 
labyrinth  of  the  State.  Not  that  I  find  no 
enjoyment  in  Mrs.  Ward's  work.  I  do  —  in 
spots ; '  but  I  wonder  how  she  can  harp  so  long 
on  those  two  strings  without  wearing  them 
thin. 

When  I  go  through  those  works  in  thought, 
I  can  but  marvel  that  so  many  pages  should  be 


MY  MAIL  123 

read,  yes  and  re-read,  by  the  reading  public 
when  from  the  first  page  to  the  tenth  or  twelfth 
thousandth  there  is  not  a  line  of  redeeming 
humor.  I  never  could  see  much  beauty  in  an 
irrigation  ditch,  but  I  know  that  it  is  most  useful 
and  productive  of  much  good  to  humanity  in 
general.  And  even  on  this  point  I  feel  that  I 
should  not  find  fault.  She  is  as  she  is,  and  to 
ask  her  to  be  otherwise  is  asking  the  impossible. 
I  really  want  to  be  fair  in  this  matter. 

Curiously  enough  I  feel  that  I  know  the  dis 
tinctive  feature  of  the  Australian  land  of  wonder 
and  mystery,  the  Australian  "bush";  for  I 
read  quite  recently  a  story  of  "Billy"  —  the 
biography  of  a  little  kangaroo  that  was  partially 
tamed.  Through  Billy's  bright  little  eyes  I 
have  seen  the  "bush".  For  this  I  am  deeply 
indebted  to  Billy's  biographer. 

8. 

It  is  interesting  —  this  mail  from  these  dis 
tant  lands  ;  but  the  home  letters  are  those  that 
refresh  and  strengthen  me ;  to  them  I  look 
forward  with  an  eagerness  not  to  be  known 


124  FROM  AN    ISLAND   OUTPOST 

except  by  those  who  really  live  the  year  found 
on  an  island.  There  is  always  a  bit  of  romance 
attending  the  arrival  of  the  boat.  I  look  out 
over  the  harbor  and  watch  for  her  to  round  the 
Point.  There  she  is  !  My  temperature  rises 
a  little  with  each  arrival.  What  will  she 
bring  to  me  ?  Love  and  friendly  greetings,  news 
and  a  good  wholesome  bit  of  gossip  from  an 
intimate  woman  friend,  or  some  royally  hearten 
ing  words  from  a  masculine  one. 

The  other  day  there  came  in  quite  unex 
pectedly  an  Indian  five-act  drama  from  a  fine 
boy  in  a  northern  state.  He  wants  to  know 
if  it  gives  sufficient  promise  for  him  to  choose 
literature  for  his  career. 

Ah,  poor  laddie  !  You  are  only  seventeen, 
and  I  must  write  and  tell  you  the  truth  :  "  Litera 
ture  is  a  good  staff,  but  a  poor  crutch ",  and  I 
would  far  rather,  in  these  times,  that  you 
should  take  plus  your  college  training  in  "  litera 
ture"  a  full  course  in  practical  agriculture;  that 
you  should  know  how  to  till,  and  plant,  and  sow 
and  reap  a  harvest ;  that  you  should  take  your 
scholarships,  gained  by  steady  effort,  and  invest 


MY  MAIL  125 

in  two  acres  of  land  that  you  can  call  your 
very  own  and,  after  college  is  over,  proceed  to 
cultivate  them  to  the  best  of  your  ability — rather 
this  than  to  devote  your  young  idealism  wholly 
to  a  literary  career. 

I  shall  say  to  him  :  "If  this  desire  be  in  you, 
if  you  are  both  equipped  and  endowed  to  work 
along  this  line,  then  work  you  will  —  and  no 
demon  of  chance  and  no  hoeing  of  potatoes, 
no  digging  of  the  same,  no  sorting  them  over, 
no  barrelling  and  marketing  them  can  hinder 
you  of  your  'providence'  in  the  profession  of 
literature.  No ;  if  that  special  gift  be  yours, 
you  will  compose  better,  indeed,  while  you  are 
sorting  over  potatoes  than  if  you  were  placed  in 
surroundings  supposed  to  be  ideally  perfect  for 
such  production.  I  could  substantiate  this  truth 
by  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  for  it  is  well  known." 

For  all  these  letters  and  the  many,  many  more 
that  come  to  me  here  —  thanks  to  their  senders, 
one  and  all.  It  is  always  a  delightful  feeling, 
this  of  being  remembered  by  those  whose  faces 
we  may  not  see.  And  if  these  many,  many 
letters  —  most  of  them  —  remain  unanswered 


126  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

for  a  year,  two  years,  three,  even  ten,  perhaps 
during  an  indefinite  lifetime,  lay  not  the  sin 
of  forgetfulness  at  my  door.  Remembrance  is 
my  penance. 

I  do  not  like  to  write  letters,  only  to  receive 
them;  and  here  again  I  realize  I  am  not 
"playing  fair". 


IX 


A    LITERARY   MOLOKAI 
I. 

IN  the  southwest  corner  of  the  square  on  the 
map  that  is  bounded  by  latitude  41  north  and 
71  west  of  Greenwich,  there  is  a  tiny,  insignifi 
cant  island  known  as  No  Man's  Land.  At 
times  it  is  uninhabited ;  at  present  there  is  but 
one  family  on  it.  It  looks  across  intervening 
waters  and  one  of  the  Elizabeth  Islands  to 
Penikese,  the  island  colony  for  lepers. 

I  should  like  to  ship  to  this  island  of  No 
Man's  Land  every  copy  of  a  book  that  may  be 
classed  as  leprous  literature,  as  well  as  all  those 
that  show  the  slightest  symptom  of  that  disease 
—  send  them  thither  and  destroy  the  plates. 
I  say  "literature",  and  do  not  include  dime 
novels  and  matter  forbidden  transportation 
through  the  mails. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  into  particulars  of 

127 


128  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

this  special  disease  according  to  the  manner  of 
some  litterateurs  now  writing.  I  will  refer  any 
one  who  may  desire  to  study  analogous  symp 
toms  to  read  of  the  condition  existing  in  the 
Hawaiian  Islands  only  a  few  years  ago,  or  to 
Leviticus  XIV.  I  think  he  will  find  all  the 
details  necessary. 

This  special,  forced  migration  is  intended 
only  for  the  literary  offspring  of  those  men 
who,  to-day,  for  want  of  better  expositors  of 
what  is  true  literature,  are  classed  as  authors 
of  some  of  the  best  modern  work. 

As  up  to  the  present  time  no  cure  has  been 
discovered  for  this  special  disease  in  letters,  it 
would  seem  wise  to  remove  these  books  from  the 
body  politic  —  pro  bono  publico  —  by  segrega 
tion.  This  class  of  literature  infects  the  mind, 
a  process  of  corruption  that  in  these  days  of 
learned  psychiatry  is  affirmed  to  be  more  danger 
ous  than  mere  bodily  infection. 

Were  it  in  my  power  I  would  ship  every  book 
—  every  novel,  every  play,  every  club  report, 
every  printed  lecture  and  discussion  (all  these 
written  for  and  discussed  by  the  laity,  be  it 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  129 

understood)  that,  whether  in  English,  German, 
Swedish,  Norse,  French,  Italian,  or  Russian, 
exploits  in  any  fashion  the  so-called  "sex- 
problem"  of  to-day.  I  write  the  word  "ex 
ploits"  intentionally. 

Against  the  authors  personally  I  have  nothing. 
I  do  not  know  them  personally  and  what  I 
know  of  them  is  generally  to  their  credit  as 
men.  What  I  say  here  is  in  regard  to  their 
works ;  they  are  held  responsible  for  the  in 
fluence  of  what  they  produce. 

2. 

There  is  a  humorous  side  to  these  moderns' 
"output".  Reading  their  plays  and  novels 
one  would  receive  the  impression  that  their 
creators  are  hardly  yet  fully  awake  to  the  fact 
that  this  earth  has  been  peopled  for  many 
thousands  of  years.  Scientists  differ  as  to  the 
time,  but  this  is  a  matter  of  no  moment;  the 
main  fact  being  that  this  world  has  been  very 
generally  peopled,  to  what  extent  we,  with 
our  small  amount  of  actual  knowledge,  as  yet 
cannot  affirm.  Recorded  history  is  so  very 


130  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

recent,  and  recording  strata  also  young  com 
pared  with  the  age  of  the  world.  And  before 
that  —  who  knows  what  "before  that"  ? 

These  writers  seem  not  to  be  aware  of  the 
fact  that  the  cave  man,  the  cave  woman  must 
have  been  as  acutely  conscious  of  sex  as  the  men 
and  women  of  to-day.  True,  they  did  not  write 
about  it,  throw  a  glamour  over  it,  halo  it  about 
with  rays  of  attempted  enlightenment  for  the 
cave  public;  nor  did  they  conceive  that  they 
were  on  a  level  with  their  contemporary  beasts 
and  trust  to  the  "unerring  instinct  of  the 
brute".  They  accepted  the  fact  that  they 
were  created  men  and  women  as  natural,  not 
unnatural,  and  made  no  literary  attempt,  so 
far  as  we  have  discovered,  to  denaturalize  that 
fact.  To  read  some  works  by  certain  authors 
of  the  present  one  might  be  led  easily  to  believe 
that  To-day  is  the  first  day  of  the  first  man, 
the  first  woman,  the  first  bird,  the  first  beast 
of  the  field.  One  is  forced  to  ask  :  "Where 
is  their  insight  into  Life?"  Not  London  life, 
not  Parisian  life,  not  the  similitude  of  life  on  the 
stage  of  the  Adelphi,  but  Life  as  a  whole. 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  131 

What  they  offer  to  you,  to  me,  to  the  reading 
public  in  general,  appears  to  be  a  simulacrum 
of  Life  galvanized  by  artificial  instinct.  It 
reminds  me  of  the  muscles  of  a  frog's  leg  severed 
from  the  body,  twitching  in  a  semblance  of 
life  from  the  application  of  the  electric  current. 
The  frog  is  real ;  the  leg  is  real ;  the  twitching 
is  very  real  —  but  there  is  nothing  animate  in 
the  experiment. 

I  concede  Life  is  not  easily  "seen  into". 
But  one  fact  has  established  itself  without  ex 
traneous  help  of  author  or  playwright  :  this 
earth  of  ours  has  been  abundantly  peopled  for, 
as  yet,  uncalculated  time,  and  in  the  long  course 
of  the  ages  has  proved  an  abiding-place,  such 
as  it  is,  for  countless  millions  and  billions  of 
human  beings,  at  least  from  their  birth  till 
their  death. 

3- 

I  believe  if  one  could  question  those  countless 
millions  individually  concerning  their  life- 
experience,  that  those  would  be  in  the  minority 
who  would  dare  to  deny  that  Life  meant  to 
them,  at  some  time,  some  kind  of  hope  — 


I32  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

whether  of  food,  improved  circumstances,  of 
joy  of  mating,  of  loyalty  to  some  ideal,  if 
that  ideal  were  only  the  artistic  ideal  of  the 
cave  man  who  drew  with  sharpened  flint  on  the 
wall  of  his  cave ;  that,  having  had  that  hope, 
that  ideal,  they  experienced  something  that 
made  life  not  only  endurable  but  desirable,  at 
least  for  a  time. 

I  believe  they  would  admit  —  and  my  be 
lief  rests  on  the  evidences  in  my  contemporaries 
about  me,  on  the  evidences,  also,  in  the  revela 
tion  on  stone,  papyrus,  parchment,  or  paper,  in 
pigment,  marble,  or  bronze,  of  generations  of 
men  and  women  for  more  than  three  thousand 
years  —  that,  crushed  by  adverse  circumstances, 
buried  by  earthquake,  overwhelmed  by  tidal 
wave,  subject  to  cataclysms  induced  by  the  play 
of  great  natural  forces ;  often  hungry,  cold, 
miserable,  worn  in  the  devious  ways  of  life, 
broken  by  toil ;  many  times  starved  by  famine 
in  the  land,  or  swept  out  of  existence  by  war 
and  pestilence,  their  bodies  tortured,  imprisoned, 
or  left  on  the  field  like  broken,  discarded  gourds, 
they,  too,  mulct  of  living  by  Life  nevertheless 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  133 

could  say,  "I  lived  —  if  only  for  a  day,  an 
hour.  I  played  the  man  and  not  the  coward. 
I  had  moments  of  bliss.  I  can  honestly  say 
that  I  would  rather  have  lived  than  not  to  have 
known  existence  with  all  its  handicaps,  its  dis 
appointments,  its  misery,  its  long-continued, 
bitter  toil  for  scant  rations,  its  fighting  struggle 
for  mere  existence.  For,  so  long  as  I  had  a  spirit 
within  me  that  made  me  the  man,  and  not 
wholly  the  animal,  I  had  some  hope,  some 
ideal  :  once  a  woman  loved  me ;  a  child  called 
me  father ;  once  I  was  fed  —  full ;  once  a  man 
or  woman  spoke  a  friendly  word  to  me.  I  made 
one  song  and  the  singing  filled  my  soul  with 
joy,  although  afterward  the  remembrance  was 
as  ashes  in  my  mouth.  I  wrought  one  statue 
and  rejoiced,  discontentedly  content  in  my  work. 
Once  I  asked  for  bread  and  was  given  a  stone 
and,  starving,  I  wrought  from  that  stone  a 
masterpiece. " 

4- 

Looked  at  from  the  right  angle,  through  a 
normal  medium,  there  is  no  such  problem  as 
the  "sex-problem".  The  facts  in  evidence  do 


134  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

not  constitute  a  "problem"  to  be  solved.  There 
is  no  solution.  What  is  termed  "sex"  is  a 
force,  and  like  gravitation  it  solves  itself.  New 
ton  formulated  a  law;  but  gravitation  existed 
before  the  law;  worked  securely  without  the 
law ;  and  no  formulating  of  that  law  has  changed 
by  a  hair  line  the  ellipse  of  the  ecliptic  —  nor 
ever  will.  It  is  true  we  can  calculate  disaster 
but  not  avert  it.  We  may  not  put  to  rout 
aeons  of  the  work  of  evolution,  much  misused 
word,  with  any  discussion  of  this  so-called 
"sex-problem",  or  by  any  formulating  of  laws 
for  the  same,  or  by  its  exploitation  in  novels 
and  plays. 

What  windy  nothings  seem  words,  appeals, 
attempts,  suggestions,  attempted  solutions,  over 
against  this  miraculous  force  !  —  it  is  the  attempt 
of  the  ant  to  fill  the  living  crater  of  Kilauea. 

5- 

What  astonishes  me  most  in  connection  with 
this  subject  is  the  colossal  narrowness  of  these 
writers'  outlook  on  life,  not  to  speak  of  their 
want  of  insight.  Love,  faith,  joy,  hope,  sacri- 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  135 

fice,  duty,  "respectability",  which  spells  for 
certain  of  them  Puritanism,  Philistinism,  and 
Hypocrisy,  are  anathema ;  romance,  ditto ; 
poetry  tinged  with  romance,  ditto ;  sentiment, 
ditto.  They  believe  all  these  to  be  manifesta 
tions  of  untruth.  Well,  that  is  their  point  of 
view.  Their  world  is  a  "charnel  house";  their 
humanity  is  "worm-eaten";  life  to  be  life  as 
they  conceive  it  should  follow  the  "unreasoning 
instinct  of  the  brute";  womanhood  —  but  I 
won't  write  that  for  the  sake  of  my  own  woman 
hood.  Shakespeare  is  "crude"  in  his  interpre 
tation  of  life  —  he  indulges  in  "sentiment"; 
Thackeray  makes  of  its  end  a  "sentimental  lie". 
O  gentlemen,  gentlemen  !  Were  what  you 
affirm  in  so  many,  many  words  that  one  is 
almost  hypnotized  by  them  into  belief,  this 
humanity  of  ours  could  not  exist,  for  the  main 
spring  of  life  would  suddenly  stop  —  short. 

6. 

A  complete  statement  in  a  few  words  of  the 
process  by  which  this  leprous  literature  has  been 
and  is  being  evolved  is  contained  in  one  sen- 


136  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

tence  that  was  written  with  no  reference  to 
this  subject.  Indeed,  to  apply  it,  I  have  re 
versed  the  quotation.  An  author  of  this  class 
of  literature  "  simply  puts  an  emphasis  on  the 
facts  that  constitute  his  body  rather  than  on 
the  facts  that  make  him  a  man."  (The  quota 
tion,  taken  from  one  of  the  Ingersoll  Lectures, 
"On  the  Hope  of  Immortality",  by  Mr.  Charles 
Fletcher  Dole,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  the 
sentiment  that,  reversed,  applies  to  this  ap 
parently  antipodal  subject,  is  as  follows:  "He 
simply  puts  his  emphasis  upon  the  facts  that 
make  him  a  man,  rather  than  upon  the  facts 
that  constitute  his  body.") 

Take  a  few  of  these  English-writing  authors 
of  To-day,  —  it  is  not  possible  in  a  few  pages 
to  open  up  the  subject  through  German,  French, 
or  other  foreign  language ;  that  would  be  a  task 
for  months. 

One  writes  with  "distinction"  of  this  so- 
called  problem,  but  with  a  caul  over  his  soul. 

A  second,  with  an  excursiveness  that  reminds 
me  of  Mr.  Barrett  Wendell's  phrase,  "the 
elusive  swirl  of  thin  verbiage",  plays  about  the 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  137 

subject  with  a  cloying  cleverness  that  no  longer 
deceives  and  in  a  little  while  will  hardly  amuse. 

A  third  writes  with  real  craftsmanship,  but  — 

There  may  be  seen  in  the  Dresden  Green 
Vaults  a  work  that  also  shows  "real  craftsman 
ship" —  a  production  in  wax  of  the  "Visita 
tion  of  the  Plague",  from  life.  With  the  help 
of  this  most  careful  workmanship  the  matter 
presented  is  true  in  every  detail ;  nothing  is 
omitted.  There  may  be  seen  the  beginning, 
progress,  waste,  discolorations,  contortions, 
death  agonies,  not  in  one  specimen  but  in 
several.  No  one  denies  the  craftsmanship, 
but—! 

7- 

We  might  like  to  ask  at  this  point,  "What 
does  make  the  man  ?"  Surely  the  time  has 
come  to  ask  this  in  all  earnest. 

We  know  pretty  thoroughly  what  constitutes 
the  body.  This  body  has  been  analyzed,  sub 
jected  to  chemical  test;  we  know  its  elements, 
what  makes  its  ash.  And  by  the  bye  the  thing 
that  animates  this  body  eludes  all  analysis, 
escapes  from  the  retort,  is  wanting  in  the  ash, 


138  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

is  not  found  in  any  combination  of  chemicals, 
cannot  be  captured  or  coaxed  to  revivify  the 
combined  elements  that  go  to  the  making  even 
of  one  grain  of  corn. 

There  is  but  one  conclusion :  the  mere  aggre 
gation  of  elements  chemically  combined  into 
the  body  of  a  man  does  not  constitute  him  a 
man.  It  constitutes  him  an  animal  of  which 
Darwin  says :  "The  structure  of  man  is  the 
final  form  in  physiology." 

What  is  it  makes  the  man  as  we  know  him, 
as  we  see  him  daily  before  our  eyes,  if  not 
honest  labor  of  whatever  kind,  honesty  of  pur 
pose,  word,  and  deed  ?  The  endeavor  to  fulfil 
as  best  he  may  in  the  circumstances  the  law  of 
existence,  to  marry,  found  the  family,  clothe 
and  feed  his  children  until  they  are  able  to  clothe 
and  feed  themselves  ?  What  is  it  but  to  set 
before  those  children  an  example  of  work, 
work,  and  always  work,  and  to  teach  them  that 
a  life  lived  without  it  is  no  life  ?  To  acknowledge 
that  man  sins  because  he  is  human ;  that  he 
fights  because  he  is  wronged ;  that  he  creates 
for  himself  his  own  heaven  and  hell  and  that 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  139 

he  must  be  a  tenant  of  one  or  the  other  on  this 
earth,  or,  paradoxically  —  on  account  of  the 
spirit  warring  with  the  flesh  —  a  tenant  of 
both  ?  To  set  before  his  children  a  standard 
of  decency  in  living  because  he  is  a  man  and 
not  wholly  a  brute ;  to  cultivate  loyalty  to  his 
friends,  loyalty  to  his  special  country,  reverence 
for  his  creation  —  I  may  not  define  here  con 
cretely  because  I  do  not  know  how ;  that  he 
be  willing,  not  forced  to  be  willing,  to  recognize 
men  as  his  brothers,  and,  recognizing  them  in 
common  brotherhood  because  they  are  human, 
be  logical  enough  and  brave  enough  and  generous 
enough  to  admit  with  every  breath  he  draws 
that  he  has  a  Father  to  whom  he  is  responsible 
for  the  spirit  of  man  that  is  in  him  ? 

8. 

This  may  seem  easy  to  write;  it  is  not. 
When  certain  men  sitting  in  their  snug  study, 
or  comfortable  library,  dip  their  pens  into  their 
inkstands  and  draw  a  line  through  the  words 
Creator,  spiritually  created,  sin,  forgiveness, 
logical  result  of  sin,  hope,  faith,  repentance, 


140  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

salvation  of  one's  self  by  work  in  this  world, 
and  then  proceed  to  enlighten  us  on  the  subject, 
for  instance,  of  the  "Puritans",  it  becomes  a 
spectacle  to  make  a  man  who  is  a  man  weep 

—  or  laugh  !     All  that  is  easily  written  by  them 

—  with  one  line  they  erase  the  hope,  the  life  of 
mankind. 

9- 

I  could  wish,  even,  that  not  only  the  "touched" 
books  of  these  present  day  writers  —  not  all 
their  works  I  am  thankful  to  say ;  some  of  them 
are  delightful  and  really  give  promise  of  more 
wholesome  diet  —  might  be  shipped  to  the 
little  island  of  No  Man's  Land,  but  that  a  few 
of  the  authors  themselves  might  be  induced  to 
make  a  sojourn  there  for  a  year  or  two,  depen 
dent  wholly  on  their  manual  labor  for  their 
livelihood. 

Surely  the  world  would  be  no  poorer  and  No 
Man's  Land  might  be  enriched  by  the  fruit  of 
their  labors.  They  should  be  obliged  to  plough, 
harrow,  till,  plant,  and  harvest.  They  should 
learn  in  furtherance  of  their  livelihood  to  fish 
with  line  and  trawl ;  to  dig  clams,  rake  in 


A  LITERARY  MOLOKAI  141 

scallops,  dredge  for  quahaugs,  spear  eels,  and  in 
so  doing  have  the  benefit  of  lungfuls  of  uncon- 
taminated  air.  The  Atlantic  winds  might  free 
them  from  all  intellectual  miasma ;  give  the  true 
man's  spirit,  half  asphyxiated  by  their  present 
intellectual  environment,  freedom  to  expand ; 
the  salt  spume  sting  their  eyes  until  they  watered 
themselves  clear  of  the  humors  engendered  of 
their  abnormal  and  astigmatic  outlook  on  life. 
They  might  experience  on  that  little  island,  in 
this  air,  what  it  means  to  earn  their  living 
literally  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows,  —  a  whole 
some  process,  —  not  by  the  perspiration  that 
is  apt  to  gather  thereon  when,  leaning  over  a 
desk  beneath  a  lamp,  they  wrestle  with  the  so- 
called  "sex-problem".  If  these  men  could  live 
for  one  season  on  that  island,  dependent  on 
their  own  efforts  for  their  livelihood,  and  see 
daily  before  their  eyes  the  life  of  the  one  family 
that  finds  its  maintenance  there,  I  believe  they 
would  write  another  kind  of  book  —  a  whole- 
somer.  In  the  end  they  might  learn  a  lesson, 
also,  from  the  clams  they  would  dig. 

I  respect  the  clam ;   it  has  certain  reserves. 


BY   WAY    OF    CONTRAST 
I. 

"I  will  lift  up  my  eyes  unto  the  hills  from 
whence  cometh  my  help." 

I  knew  a  woman  whose  story  I  have  been 
tempted  again  and  again  to  write.  It  is  com 
monplace. 

She  lived  in  an  old,  weather-beaten  house  on 
a  remote  hill  in  Vermont.  She  was  married 
early,  perhaps  as  a  matter  of  making  one  less 
in  a  none  too  well  provided  for  household.  She 
had  her  one  child,  a  girl,  just  before  her  hus 
band  died.  She  went  back  to  the  old  home  on 
the  hill  to  work  for  herself  and  child,  caring, 
meanwhile,  for  her  father  and  mother. 

She  told  me  that  because,  after  the  death  of 
her  parents,  she  could  not  take  her  child  with 
her  into  the  mill,  and  as  she  had  no  one  with 
whom  to  leave  her,  she  was  allowed  to  take 

142 


BY  WAY  OF  CONTRAST  143 

certain  work  home;  and  so  spun  and  wrought 
till  the  brothers  were  old  enough  to  care  for 
themselves.  There  were  three  of  them. 

One  enlisted  and  lost  his  life  in  the  Civil  War. 
She  mortgaged  the  old  house,  the  home  of  her 
parents,  and  with  the  money  went  on  to  Balti 
more  and  brought  his  body  home.  The  second 
brother  was  drafted,  and  there  was  no  money 
to  be  had  to  pay  the  bounty  in  order  that  he 
might  remain  at  home  to  help  her.  He  went ; 
and  was  sent  back  invalided  for  life.  The 
third  was  drafted  also.  She  was  enabled  to 
borrow  money  to  pay  the  bounty.  He  was 
necessary  in  the  home;  he  helped  a  little  by 
"teaming"  for  the  mill,  but  he  was  the  kind 
that  never  "got  on". 

Finding  she  could  not  work  in  the  mill,  care 
for  the  home  and  support  herself,  child,  and 
invalid  brother,  she  mortgaged  her  little  home 
once  more  for  a  hundred  dollars  —  I  think  that 
was  the  sum  —  and  opened  a  shop  in  the  small, 
front  room.  She  set  to  work  to  feed  four, 
clothe  three,  and  educate  her  child. 

In  due  time  one  brother  married,  the  other 


144  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

died ;  but  not  before  she  had  buried  her  only 
child,  a  girl  who  had  grown  to  young  woman 
hood  ;  had  worked  in  the  mill,  fighting  against 
inherited  weakness  of  constitution,  and  finally 
succeeding  in  earning  something  for  herself  and 
mother  by  the  use  of  her  voice,  a  rarely  beautiful 
one.  That  happiness  was  of  short  duration  — 
a  year ;  then  she,  too,  was  carried  from  the  little 
house  on  the  lonely  hill  and  slept  beside  her 
father. 

As  a  child  of  twelve  I  idealized  work  where- 
ever  and  whenever  I  saw  it ;  I  imagined  how 
delightful  it  must  be  to  earn  for  oneself  —  like 
Kate,  this  one  daughter  of  the  rare  voice.  One 
day,  —  I  was  on  a  visit  to  my  grandparents,  — 
I  begged  her  to  take  me  with  her  that  I  might 
work  beside  her  in  the  mill.  She  indulged  me. 
For  three  hours  I  sat  on  a  stool  by  her  side 
trying  to  do  awkwardly  what  she  did  so  skil 
fully.  It  was  a  hot  day.  The  sun  shone  into 
the  room  through  the  many  bare  windows  be 
neath  which  the  water  roared  over  the  dam 
shaking  the  mill  to  its  foundations,  as  well  as  a 
small  girl  perched  on  a  high  stool  before  a  bench 


BY  WAY  OF  CONTRAST  145 

at  which  some  twenty  girls  and  women  were 
at  work,  their  fingers  flying  at  a  rate  that  made 
me  dizzy.  And  what  with  the  dizzying  fingers, 
the  dizzying  of  the  rushing  waters,  the  hot  sun 
shining  on  them  and  sending  the  glaring  reflec 
tion  quivering  along  the  ceiling,  and  the  con 
tinual  shaking  and  trembling  of  stool  and  floor 
beneath  her,  it  was  a  sea-sick  small  girl  who 
was  taken  down  to  the  door  of  the  mill  and 
sent  up  the  hill  to  the  little  house  for  comfort 
and  refreshment. 

I  never  idealized  any  kind  of  work  after  that. 

This  daughterless  woman  was  left  at  last 
with  the  care  of  an  old,  old  woman  who  lived 
to  be  a  hundred  and  one  years  lacking  a  few 
months.  She  was  a  relation,  and  her  humble 
home  was  across  the  road  on  that  hilltop.  The 
two  lived  apart  as  was  best ;  but  day  after  day, 
season  after  season,  year  after  year  as  the  old 
dame  grew  more  feeble,  this  undaunted  woman 
carried  in  summer  heat  and  arctic  cold  a  tray 
well-filled  from  her  hard-earned  store  across  to 
her  poorer  neighbor  and  relation.  She  tended 
her,  at  ninety,  through  what  was  supposed  to 


146  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

be  her  last  illness.  She  lived  eleven  years  after 
that. 

In  time  the  old  woman  died.  She,  also,  was 
brave,  strong  of  spirit,  poor  —  but  she,  also, 
was  glad  to  have  lived.  "Don't  have  me  on 
your  mind  nights,  Susan,"  she  used  to  say; 
"remember  it  is  for  me  just  now  as  if  I  were 
crossing  that  threshold.  Don't  mind  there 
being  no  light  in  my  bedroom  —  it  makes  no 
difference." 

When  she  was  gone  her  poor  home  on  the  hill 
became  the  woman's  who  had  cared  for  her.  It 
let,  off  and  on,  with  its  small  garden  for  thirty 
dollars  a  year.  But  it  was  only  "off  and  on". 
"If  I  could  have  that  thirty  dollars  income 
regular  from  that  house  of  Aunt  L.'s,"  she  used 
to  say,  "I  should  feel  rich  —  yes,  richy"  she 
added  with  emphasis. 

Poor  she  always  was,  but  rich  in  spirit  —  so 
rich  that  people  sought  her  out  in  that  home  on 
the  hill  for  inspiration,  for  jollification,  for  the 
pure  pleasure  of  hearing  something  of  her  marked 
originality,  of  her  good  thoughts  on  many  sub 
jects,  of  sharpening  their  wits  on  hers. 


BY  WAY  OF   CONTRAST  147 

She  kept  her  independence,  working  almost 
to  the  last.  Twice  a  year  she  went  to  Boston 
to  buy  goods  for  her  little  shop.  These  were 
gala  times  for  her.  Nothing  from  Bunker  Hill 
Monument  to  the  latest  play  at  the  theatre  es 
caped  her  keen  eyes.  All  the  city  life  for  that 
one  week  yielded  her  a  wealth  of  enjoyment, 
and  the  relation  of  that  enjoyment  gave  genuine 
pleasure  to  many  others  in  that  remote  North 
Country  village. 

She  was  merry.  She  was  no  Puritan,  no 
Philistine;  yet  she  was  eminently  "respec 
table"  ;  honored  for  her  dignified  and  sacrificial 
womanhood ;  loved  for  her  hospitality,  her 
cheeriness,  her  friendliness,  by  the  hundreds 
who  sought  her  acquaintance.  She  never  spoke 
of  her  troubles,  living  or  dead,  unless  to  those 
who  knew  her  well  enough  to  speak  first  of  them 
to  her,  and  then  never  with  a  note  of  despair. 

"How  can  you  be  so  cheerful  now  that  you 
have  lost  all  ?"  I  asked  her  one  day  when  I  was 
paying  her  a  visit. 

We  were  sitting  at  the  immaculate  table  on 
which  stood  at  meal-time,  in  winter  and  summer, 


i48  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

in  the  places  where  her  brother  and  daughter 
were  accustomed  to  sit,  two  old-fashioned  cus 
tard  glasses  filled  with  such  flowers  as  the  season 
offered  :  in  winter  geranium  and  its  leaves ;  in 
summer  any  little  flower  from  the  hillside  or  from 
her  small  old-fashioned  garden.  With  a  deli 
cacy  I  must  record,  she  never  when  entertain 
ing  a  passing  guest,  and  they  were  many,  allowed 
the  custard  glasses  to  be  on  the  table.  They 
were  for  her  alone  —  a  pleasant  companionship 
for  her  on  that  hill,  but  never  intended  to  remind 
others  of  any  sadness  of  loss.  I  used  to  ask 
that  they  might  remain  when  I  was  with  her,  for 
as  a  child  I  knew  her  daughter  and  brother. 

She  looked  at  me  across  the  table  and  smiled. 
"My  dear,"  she  said,  "as  sorrow  after  sorrow 
came  and  my  heart  broke  after  Kate's  death, 
I  learned  a  lesson :  never  to  carry  my  grief  into 
another's  home  or  intrude  my  tears  on  pleasant 
companionship.  I  soon  saw  that  I  should  not 
be  welcome  to  my  friends  if  I  went  among  them 
with  a  sorrowful  face  or  with  tears  —  and  my 
friends  are  all  I  have  left.  I  cannot  do  with 
out  them." 


BY  WAY  OF   CONTRAST  149 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  with  eyes  that 
saw  nothing  of  the  roadway,  the  bank,  or  the 
setting  sun,  and  added :  "  I  have  cried  buckets- 
ful  as  I  have  sat  here  alone  —  but  that  is  no 
concern  of  anybody's." 

I,  too,  learned  my  lesson  then  and  there.  My 
only  hope  is  that  I  may  have  profited  by  it,  and 
may  continue  to. 

2. 

Many  a  time  I  have  sat  on  the  steep,  dark, 
narrow  stair  that  led  to  her  garret  and  browsed 
in  her  library,  the  light  falling  on  the  page  from 
the  open  garret  door  just  above  me.  Her 
library  !  —  this  she  called  the  three  book-filled 
shelves  that  were  set,  recessed,  into  what  was 
an  old  window.  Instead  of  boarding  it  up,  she 
had  made  it  into  a  book  closet  in  the  wall  of  the 
steep  stair.  Across  it  was  drawn  an  immacu 
late  white  curtain  of  coarse,  starched  linen. 

As  girl  and  woman  I  always  had  a  thrill  when 
I  drew  aside  that  curtain  and  sitting  down  on 
the  narrow  stair  took  out  a  book.  They  were 
curious,  some  of  them  !  Books  that  had  been 
given  to  her  daughter;  books  that  had  been 


150  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

presented  to  the  hostess  herself ;  books  the 
summer  friends,  visiting  or  boarding  in  the 
mountain  hamlet,  had  left  there  on  the  settle 
in  the  old-fashioned  kitchen  ;  books  the  minister 
had  discarded  when  he  changed  his  parish ; 
magazines  dating  from  the  time  of  the  Civil 
War,  given  to  her  by  some  city  friend ;  novels  in 
paper  covers  —  an  olla  podrida  of  literature. 

The  library  in  the  wall  of  the  garret  stair  in 
the  little  weather-beaten  house  on  that  hill  gave 
to  me  "Dora  Thorne"(!)  and  —  "Spinoza" 
in  translation  ! !  These  two  suffice  to  show  the 
range  of  its  literary  gamut. 

3- 

She  died  eight  years  ago.  She  had  a  serious 
heart  trouble  —  when  I  knew  it  I  recalled  her 
words,  "My  heart  broke  after  Kate's  death." 
As  she  lived  alone,  some  one  had  given  her  a 
telephone  which  hung  by  her  bedside.  Every 
night  at  bedtime  she  rang  up  her  nearest  neigh 
bor  and  said,  "Good  night,  I'm  all  right",  that 
they  might  not  have  her  "on  their  mind". 

One  night  in  mid-winter,  when    the  mercury 


BY  WAY  OF   CONTRAST  151 

registered  twenty-eight  below  zero,  that  tele 
phone  rang  at  midnight.  The  neighbors, 
roused  from  sleep,  answered  at  once;  but 
there  came  no  sound.  Summoning  the  doc 
tor,  they  hurried  down  to  her.  They  found 
her  on  the  old  settle  in  the  kitchen  which  was 
the  living-room  of  the  house.  She  had  made 
up  a  fire  and  tried  to  do  for  herself.  After  an 
hour's  struggle  during  which,  with  a  brave  smile, 
she  assured  them  she  thought  she  would  "  come 
through"  —  she  "went  out". 

She  was  as  brave  a  woman  as  I  have  ever 
known. 

She  was  the  prototype  —  in  some  things 
only  —  of  "Aunt  'Lize"  in  "The  Wood-carver 
of  'Lympus",  and  the  incident  of  the  praying 
colporteur  is  an  episode  in  her  own  life  on  that 
hilltop.  Commenting  on  my  version  of  it,  she 
said  :  "You  didn't  make  it  half  strong  enough  ;" 
then,  laughing  merrily,  for  she  had  a  keen  sense 
of  humor  —  I  believe  that  was  her  mainstay  in 
life  —  she  added  with  much  impressiveness : 
"Yes,  I  let  him  pray  right  along  and  I  kept  on 
kneading.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do  me  any  harm, 


152  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

and  it  was  doing  him  a  lot  of  good  to  pray  for 
me  —  poor  soul !" 

But  the  "poor  soul"  was  not  for  her. 

Would  you  ask  that  woman  if  she  was  thank 
ful  to  have  lived  ? 

4- 

This  is  not  an  hypothesis,  a  theory  of  life; 
it  is  a  fact  of  life,  although  a  meagre  enough 
sketch  of  what  was  so  rich  in  spirit  that  to  think 
of  it  is  an  inspiration.  There  are  many  mil 
lions  of  such  facts  among  those  who  toil.  Pon 
der  a  moment  this  fact :  —  that  the  spirit  of 
man  may  be  rich,  is  so  divinely  constituted  that 
it  calls  itself  rich,  when  the  body  that  is  its 
mechanical  expression  is  overwhelmed  with  care, 
burdened  with  over-work,  starved  in  part,  cold, 
miserable,  suffering. 

5- 

As  I  have  gathered  strength  through  this 
woman's  life  lived  among  the  hills,  I  can  also 
affirm  I  have  been  enlightened  by  the  words  : 
"If  I  make  my  bed  in  hell,  behold,  thou  art 
there." 

That  hell  is  about  us,  around  us,  with  us; 


BY  WAY  OF   CONTRAST  153 

we  have  not  far  to  seek  it  in  prison,  in  slum,  in 
the  luxury  bought  with  a  woman's  honor,  in 
the  thought  of  man,  in  his  deeds.  We  may  find 
it  without  much  seeking;  sometimes  we  have 
only  to  "look  at  home". 

I  was  reading  only  the  other  day  in  Scribner's 
Magazine  the  second  paper,  by  Miss  Taylor,  of 
the  series,  "The  Man  Behind  the  Bars". 

"Alfred"  was  a  waif.  Until  he  was  thirteen 
he  knew  no  helping  hand,  sleeping  anywhere, 
eating  when  he  could  find  a  morsel,  struggling 
at  that  growing  age  just  to  get  the  strength  to 
struggle  to  exist.  Then  a  professional  burglar 
held  out  a  helping  hand.  He  literally  "took 
him  in  hand"  —  and  his  education  landed  him 
at  an  early  age  in  prison. 

Miss  Taylor  writes:  "His  fate  seemed  such 
a  cruel  waste  of  a  piece  of  humanity  of  fine  fibre, 
with  a  brain  that  would  have  made  a  brilliant 
record  at  any  university.  But  the  moral  and 
physical  deprivations  from  which  his  boyhood 
had  suffered  had  wrought  havoc  with  his  health 
and  undermined  his  constitution."  Thereupon 
followed  the  prison  term.  Hard  labor  and  con- 


154  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

finement  sowed  the  seed  of  disease  in  the  weak 
ened  constitution. 

He  wrote  to  Miss  Taylor :  "  Even  in  this 
horrid  old  shop  I  have  some  very  happy  times 
thinking  of  your  friendship  and  building  castles 
in  the  air." 

After  his  release  he  had  another  long  row  to 
hoe  in  his  struggle  to  reestablish  himself  on  a 
footing  of  existence.  Why  did  he  not  end  it 
all  ?  What  was  there  in  his  life  to  induce  him 
to  live  ?  A  friend,  perhaps,  and  an  encouraging 
word  —  and  surely  the  spirit  of  a  man. 

He  writes  again :  "  Strong  as  is  my  love  for 
woman,  much  as  I  long  for  some  one  to  share 
my  life,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  ever  ask  any 
woman  to  take  into  her  life  half  that  blackened 
and  crime-stained  page  of  my  past.  I  must 
try  to  find  happiness  in  helping  others." 

But  the  one  woman  crossed  his  path  ;  and  when 
he  told  her  all  that  past  she  said:  "And  so 
you  were  afraid  I  would  think  less  of  you  ?  Not 
a  bit.  It  only  hurts  me  to  think  of  all  that 
you  have  been  through." 

He  lived  to  hear  a  little  boy  try  to  call  him 


BY  WAY  OF  CONTRAST  155 

"Father",  and  a  short  while  after  that  to  lay 
him  away.  Then  Life  proved  too  hard  for 
him  —  for  the  mechanism  of  him,  not  for  his 
undaunted  spirit.  He  wrote  that  he  hoped 
"to  be  able  to  work  again". 

Miss  Taylor  calls  him  "a  good  soldier  .  .  . 
a  valiant  spirit." 

What  would  "Alfred's"  answer  be  to  the 
question,  "Would  you  rather  have  existed  on 
this  earth  or  not  ?" 

Having  read  some  of  his  letters,  I  believe  we 
know  the  answer. 

6. 

Over  against  that  woman's  life  lived  among 
the  hills,  over  against  this  man's  life  —  one  of 
thousands  lived  for  a  time  in  hell  —  this  "Al 
fred",  this  created  thing,  part  mechanics,  part 
spirit,  the  spiritual  part  of  whom  remained 
undaunted  when  his  mechanism  failed  him, 
place  the  exposition  of  what  life  is  by  some  of 
the  present-day  writers  of  fiction  —  a  matter 
of  lust,  greed,  hypocrisy,  dulness  of  the  senses 
to  all  objective  beauty,  the  indifference  of  the 
beast  in  man. 


156  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

It  is  this  deadliness  of  infection,  the  precursor 
of  pestilence  in  the  mentality  of  our  human  race, 
that  calls  for  a  literary  Molokai  like  No  Man's 
Land. 

I  may  be  mistaken,  I  trust  I  am.  I  may  lay 
too  much  weight  on  the  influence  of  these  pres 
ent-day  productions.  It  may  be  food  for  a 
certain  coterie  appetite  only.  Let  us  hope  so, 
if  only  for  the  sake  of  the  children  of  To-day 
and  those  yet  unborn. 


XI 


AT  THE    EDGE    OF   THE    WORLD 
I. 

THIS  is  the  South  Shore.  Two  miles'  walk 
or  drive  from  town  and  one  comes  to  this  ultima 
thule  of  New  England's  coasts. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  find  myself  there 
one  warm  October  morning.  The  ocean  lay 
open  to  the  sun  shining  through  a  light  haze. 
The  surface  water  rose  and  fell  in  long,  long 
swells  each  one  of  which,  with  a  marked  con 
tinuity  of  gentle  motion,  broke  in  exquisite 
involute  curves  along  the  seemingly  unending 
stretch  of  sand  eastward  to  Tom  Never's  Head 
and  westward  to  Maddequet.  A  narrow  edge 
of  foam  outlined  on  the  sands  this  involute 
movement  of  the  waters. 

The  crisping  rustle  of  the  slow  wave  was  the 
only  sound  audible.  Not  a  gull,  not  a  cloud 
flecked  the  arching  sky.  There  was  no  sea- 
is; 


158  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

weed,  not  a  shell  on  the  yellow  sands,  not  a 
white  sail  on  the  horizon.  The  low  bank  be 
hind  me  shut  off  all  view  of  the  silent  moors. 
Before  me  lay  the  Ocean  to  the  horizon  line, 
and  ever  beyond  it  southward  was  that  Ocean 
—  and  still  southward,  ever  beyond. 

Sitting  there,  I  believe  the  soul  of  me  for  a 
space  of  unrecorded  time,  —  it  might  have 
been  a  minute,  it  might  have  been  but  ten 
seconds,  —  sloughed  off  its  earthly  trappings. 
I  lost  for  that  indefinite  portion  of  time  the 
personality  that  so  often  encumbers ;  so  often 
hinders  us  in  accomplishment ;  so  often  hampers 
us  in  our  relations  with  others  ;  so  seldom  shows 
itself  as  a  perfect  medium  of  expression  for 
"one's  self".  I  saw  that  personality  for  what 
it  is  in  its  relation  to  the  natural  world :  some 
thing  less  than  a  grain  of  the  sands  at  my  feet. 

Life's  worries,  its  anxieties,  burdens,  tasks, 
were  no  part  of  me  for  that  infinitesimal  portion 
of  the  round  of  eternity.  Its  joys,  hopes,  an 
ticipations,  disappointments  were  as  though 
they  had  never  been.  The  soul  of  me  stood 
aside  and  looked  on.  I  realized  that  what 


AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD    159 

that  personality  might  say  or  do,  how  it  might 
act,  how  it  might  not  act  at  a  given  time,  in 
given  circumstances,  could  not  affect  the  soul 
that  has  its  dwelling  apart.  This  realization 
was  but  for  that  space  of  unrecorded  time. 

I  do  not  hold  much  with  dreams,  and  I  dream 
but  seldom ;  but  one  remains  with  me :  —  I 
was  standing  on  the  shore  of  a  great  sea,  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  pyramids.  The  sun  was 
low  in  the  west,  and  that  shadow  was  prodi 
giously  projected  far,  far  out  across  the  waters 
to  the  horizon  line.  The  sense  of  physical 
isolation  was  appalling;  it  was  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  I  have  never  in  waking  hours  supposed 
possible. 

I  experienced  something  of  this  isolation  of 
spirit  for  that  moment  —  if  moment  it  were  — 
at  the  Edge  of  the  World. 

2. 

I  took  up  a  handful  of  the  sands  and  let  them 
run  through  my  fingers.  Just  so  small,  so  ap 
parently  valueless,  so  insignificant  seemed  all 
my  petty  criticisms,  my  tempest-in-a-teapot 


160  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

indignations,  my  senseless  diatribes  against 
this  thing,  that  thing,  or  the  other.  I  doubt 
at  that  moment  if  I  could  have  found  a  single 
act  of  my  life  under  the  most  powerful  micro 
scope,  so  infinitesimal  did  all  connected  with 
this  "self"  seem  out  on  the  South  Shore,  under 
the  arch  of  that  serene  sky,  in  the  light  of  those 
sun-filled  waters  on  the  shoals. 

Indeed,  the  things  themselves  seemed  more 
than  trivial.  A  man's  view  of  the  universe, 
a  telescope's  revelation  of  another  portion  of  it 
—  these  seemed  but  infinitesimal  attempts  to 
enlarge  Infinity.  From  Infinity  to  Infinity  — 
that  is  all  the  best  and  most  eloquent  expositor 
of  the  universe,  physical  and  spiritual,  can 
show  us,  the  only  road.  Why  not  accept  this 
without  question  ?  Why  waste  a  portion  of 
our  strength,  physical  and  spiritual,  in  wrestling 
with  the  Infinite  ?  It  is  well  to  hark  back  to 
Goethe's  words  :  "Man  is  not  born  to  solve  the 
problem  of  the  universe,  but  to  find  out  what 
he  has  to  do ;  and  to  restrain  himself  within 
the  limits  of  his  comprehension." 

These  words  bring  comfort. 


AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD    161 

3- 

Feeling  so  very  small,  so  utterly  insignificant, 
so  wholly  useless  out  there  on  the  sands  cast  up 
from  the  shoals,  I  began  to  regret  what  I  had 
felt  about  the  work  of  men  who  write  not  ac 
cording  to  my  way  of  thinking,  narrow  as  this 
must  seem  and  sound.  For  a  few  minutes  such 
was  my  feeling  of  unworthiness  to  think  a 
thought,  much  less  utter  a  word,  about  any 
living  human  being's  accomplishment  in  this 
world,  that  I  was  minded  to  retract  what  I 
had  thought  and  said  of  it.  I  was  even 
for  allowing  poor  Ibsen,  Nietzsche,  Strindberg 
and  Company  to  thrive  like  green  bay  trees 
in  their  attempts  to  present  certain  problems 
of  this  universe  for  solution  —  but  I  caught 
myself  up  in  time. 

No !  Nirvana  is  not  for  me  any  more  than 
it  was  and  is  for  them.  They,  and  I,  and  all  of  us 
humans  must  stand  the  test,  "What  is  excellent 
by  God's  will  is  permanent".  So  I  dare  mis 
quote.  What  they  give  of  excellence  will  live, 
what  they  yield  of  unworthiness  will  perish. 
Wait  —  only  wait. 


162  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

4- 

As  for  me,  I  am  here  to-day,  of  To-day ;  that 
is  enough.  I  recalled  my  father's  word  to  me 
when  my  small  six-year-old  world  suffered 
transient  eclipse  through  some  fancied  woe: 
"Come  out  into  the  sunshine." 

"Yes,"  I  exhorted  myself,  "come  away  from 
all  that  leads  you  into  the  realm  of  the  anni 
hilated  individuality.  '  Stick  to  your  sure  trot. ' 
Keep  your  house  as  best  you  can ;  cook,  dust, 
sew,  and  between  whiles  manage  to  earn  your 
livelihood  in  a  legitimate  way.  Care  for  those 
you  love ;  try  hard  to  care  a  little  for  those  you 
do  not  love  who  may  need  you  even  if  you  think 
you  have  no  need  of  them.  Keep  your  friends 
—  an  art  in  itself.  Be  a  friend.  Live  out  each 
day  in  the  recognition  that  another  day  on  this 
earth  having  been  yours,  you  are  the  richer  in 
many  opportunities  to  aid,  to  comfort,  to  enjoy, 
and  help  enjoy.  Remember  that  you  have  five 
perfect  senses  with  which  to  enjoy;  that  you 
need  not  seek  diversion  so  long  as  you  are  blest 
with  these.  Remember  that  woman's  life  on 


AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WORLD    163 

the  remote  hilltop,  and  act  according  to  that 
remembrance. "  —  Ah,  if  I  could  ! 

And  thereupon  I  rose,  freed  myself  from  sand, 
shook  myself  together  —  soul  and  body ;  they 
needed  a  thorough  mixing,  as  they  would  not 
amalgamate,  after  that  moment  of  separation 
at  the  Edge  of  the  World.  Then  I  drove  over 
to  Tom  Never's  Head  and  so  straight  over  the 
moors  homewards. 

5- 

When  the  little  town  came  into  view,  so  glad 
was  I  to  see  it  that  I  was  seized  with  an  absurd, 
unreasoning  desire  to  approach  a  gray  shingled 
cottage  on  the  road  with  the  intention  of  at 
tempting  to  hug  it;  I  did  in  spirit.  Had  I 
been  for  two  years  in  exile  on  the  steppes  of 
Tartary,  home  could  not  have  been  more  wel 
come  to  me.  Every  clam-shell  path,  every 
sandy  lane  on  that  homeward  drive  looked  to 
be  an  avenue  of  approach  to  my  earthly  para 
dise.  I  wanted  to  greet  every  scallop  fisher 
man  who  passed  me  with  "Good-day,  brother". 
I  wanted  to  wave  my  hand  to  all  the  school 
children  solely  to  express  my  joy  in  their  heed- 


164  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

less  youth;  to  promise  every  old  woman  who 
passed  me  in  the  roadway  a  birthday  cake; 
to  kiss  every  fat,  fair  baby  that  peered  at  me 
from  beneath  the  hood  of  its  carriage. 

No  !  Nirvana,  and  all  that  tends  to  it,  is 
not  for  me.  My  spirit  is  gregarious,  how  aloof 
soever  it  might  have  held  itself  for  that  lonely 
moment  on  the  South  Shore.  It  is  no  abiding- 
place  for  the  spirit  of  us  humans  —  that  Edge 
of  the  World ! 


XII 


A    PRIVATE    VIEW 
I. 

THERE  is  one  small  room  I  keep  for  my  private 
picture  gallery.  It  is  a  quiet  room  with  a  good 
light.  The  dozen  or  more  water-colors  and  a 
few  choice  etchings  show  to  advantage  on  its 
walls.  My  friends  are  always  at  liberty  to 
view  it  privately. 

Here  is  Number  One :  A  close  in  an  old 
wynd  in  the  ancient  quarter  of  Edinburgh,  the 
Cowgate.  A  bit  of  clear,  cold  sky  shows  high 
between  the  stone  houses  blackened  by  time, 
weather,  and  smoke.  At  the  right  of  the  narrow 
irregular  entrance  is  an  early  eighteenth  cen 
tury  doorway  with  wide,  recessed  triple  arch 
and  heavy  jambs.  Sculptured  on  the  stone  in 
beautiful  Old  English  lettering  you  may  read : 
Pax  intrantibus  —  Salus  exeuntibus. 

165 


i66  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

The  painting  is  true  in  detail  and  exquisite 
in  color.  It  might  be  taken  anywhere  for  a 
Drummond.  But  most  significantly  beautiful 
to  me  is  the  inscription,  pathetic,  also,  for 
this  royal  welcome  is  found  in  what  is  now  a 
slum  of  Scotland's  capital.  Peace  to  those  enter 
ing  —  Health  to  those  departing. 

I  wish  I  had  just  such  a  fine,  old  stone  doorway 
here  in  Nantucket !  Then  I  would  have  carved 
above  it :  Pax  intrantibus  —  Solus  exeuntibus, 
as  a  "hail"  and  " health-to-you-in-leaving "  for 
my  special  friends.  Indeed,  I  ought  not  to 
limit  this  sentiment  of  the  old  Latin  inscription 
to  the  privilegies.  I  could  wish  that  all  who 
should  cross  our  threshold  might  partake  of  its 
good  will. 

This  Number  One  is  a  favorite  of  mine ;  I 
saw  the  original  in  Edinburgh  many  years  ago. 

2. 

I  often  turn  from  a  minute  study  of  this 
picture  to  a  painting  of  Mount  Mansfield  in 
the  Green  Mountains.  I  can  conceive  of  no 
greater  contrast  in  color  scheme,  subject,  treat- 


A  PRIVATE  VIEW  167 

ment,  and  sentiment,  than  is  this  to  the  confined, 
narrow,  centuries-darkened  close  in  the  old  Cow- 
gate  wynd. 

The  season  is  October.  Across  miles  of 
yellowish  brown  grass  and  stubble  lands,  the 
mountain  looms  against  an  eastern  sky  of  in 
definite  blue-gray.  It  is  seen  in  the  low  light 
of  a  sunfilled  afternoon.  In  the  nearly  level 
rays  of  that  strong  sun,  a  third  of  its  height, 
where  the  maple-forest  belts  it,  glows  transfused 
crimson,  subdued  here  and  there  by  the  intrusive 
irregular  masses  of  evergreens.  From  this  mag 
nificent  foundation  of  transcendent  color,  the 
mountain's  remaining  height  mantled  in  newly 
fallen  snow  gleams  with  a  wondrous  purity  of 
tint  against  that  indefinite  east. 

This  work  belongs  of  necessity  to  the  Impres 
sionist  School  because  of  the  subject  and  masses 
of  color. 

3- 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  that  there  may  be  no 
unnecessary  deception  by  which  any  one  might 
be  led  to  believe  that  I  am  the  possessor  of 
Corots,  Drummonds,  Meryons,  or  Millets,  that 


1 68  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

my  little  quiet  room  is  only  one  of  my  chambers 
of  memory  and  these  pictures  on  its  walls  are 
a  few,  very  few,  among  the  many  of  my  lasting 
impressions.  I  have  only  to  enter  this  little 
room  —  by  day  or  night,  it  makes  no  mate 
rial  difference,  the  light  is  always  good  —  and 
there  they  hang  unspoiled  in  any  way  by  time, 
as  fresh  in  coloring  as  when  the  impression 
was  first  made  on  the  delicate  brain-films.  It 
was  in  October,  1905,  that  I  saw  Mansfield  in 
such  glory. 

4- 

We  lived  for  one  summer  in  Switzerland  on 
the  Lake  of  Thun.  I  brought  away  with  me 
several  paintings  —  water-colors,  of  course.  I 
call  them  the  "Lake  of  Thun  Series". 

From  our  room-balcony,  overlooking  the  lake, 
the  three  monarchs  faced  us  :  the  Eiger,  Moench, 
and  Jungfrau  —  a  summer's  vision  of  rose- 
gleam  at  eventide,  purple  and  white  at  dawn, 
of  undulating  violet  and  blue  in  the  mists  that, 
at  times,  half  hid,  half  revealed  them,  of  cold 
gray-white  under  cloudy  skies,  and  the  ethereal 
gradations  of  rose,  violet,  purple,  and  gray  at 


A  PRIVATE  VIEW  169 

the  departure  of  the  afterglow,  in  the  rising  of 
the  pale,  full  moon. 

Across  the  lake,  only  two  miles  distant,  the 
Niessen  rose  seven  thousand  feet,  seemingly 
from  the  water's  edge ;  in  reality  there  is  a 
plain  of  approach.  Day  after  day  an  artist 
in  the  house  attempted  to  catch  and  render 
permanent  in  color  something  of  the  transient 
beauty  of  that  mountain.  It  became  a  matter 
for  despair ;  a  second,  and  a  new  combination  of 
colors  was  necessary;  a  minute,  and  the  trans 
formation  was  complete  —  proportion,  shape 
even,  must  be  altered.  There  were  sketch 
suicides  by  the  dozen  during  that  summer; 
but  the  Niessen  was  not  to  be  captured. 

Oh,  that  marvellous,  unbelievable  play  of 
color  in  the  diaphanous  mists  that  trailed  across 
it,  wreathed  its  summit,  lay  on  its  flanks ;  that 
half  veiled  it;  that  rose  and  fell  like  a  tide 
from  the  lake  about  its  base;  that  banded  its 
green  with  purple;  subdued  its  purple  with 
gray;  tinted  its  gray  with  violet,  touched  its 
smoke-topaz  with  bronze  !  Oh,  the  clouds  that 
swept  across,  over,  around,  and  above  it !  They 


170  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

were  "shepherded"  on  its  green  slopes,  or  cap 
ping  its  summit  were  tinged  now  and  then  by 
the  palest  rose,  a  reflection  from  the  evening- 
glow  on  snow-crowns  of  the  monarchs  at  the 
head  of  the  lake.  At  times,  the  seven  thousand 
feet  of  mountain  nobility  —  those  who  know 
the  Niessen  will  recognize  the  truth  of  that 
word  "nobility"  —  were  blotted  out  in  dense 
rain-clouds. 

There  is  another  I  have  named  my  "tout- 
ensemble-multum-in-parvo"  sketch.  It  recalls 
what  we  saw  daily  from  our  balcony,  weather 
permitting  :  in  the  foreground  are  the  heavy- 
timbered,  brown  roofs  of  the  village  houses; 
beyond,  the  little  chateau  beneath  the  cypress, 
and  its  walled  gardens  extending  into  the  lake 
across  which  the  Niessen  shadows  the  waters 
beneath  it  till  they  gleam  translucent,  a  pave 
ment  of  pure  beryl.  And  beyond  lake  and 
intervening  mountains,  whose  alps  show  emer 
ald  in  the  sunlight,  loom  the  three  white  giants 
filling  all  the  eastern  sky. 

I  have  only  to  look  at  this,  and  I  hear  the 
moving  tinkle  of  herd-bells. 


A  PRIVATE  VIEW  171 

5- 

My  home  in  the  Green  Mountains  stands  at  the 
meeting  place  of  three  roads  or,  better  perhaps, 
the  triple  forking  of  the  highway  from  the  village. 

The  main  one  slopes  northwards  and  down 
wards  to  the  bridge  and  the  river.  Another 
looks  eastwards  up  a  steep  slope  between  high 
grass-hills  —  upland  pastures  for  sheep  and 
cattle ;  the  vista  is  closed  by  the  skyline  resting 
on  the  road  at  the  top  !  The  third  curves 
southwards  up  a  long,  hard  rise.  One  side  of 
the  road  is  set,  by  nature,  with  butternut,  maple, 
elm,  and  roadside  " brush".  The  other  is 
fenced ;  and  below  the  fence  broad  hill-pastures 
slope  to  the  river  beyond  which  the  hills,  broken, 
overlapping,  follow  the  course  of  the  "White" 
branch  of  the  Connecticut  into  the  heart  of  the 
mountains. 

This  third  road  was  constantly  changing  in 
aspect  with  the  seasons.  It  was  at  all  times  a 
delight.  A  sketch  of  it,  as  I  saw  it  in  November 
a  few  years  ago,  hangs  on  the  walls  of  my  private 
gallery  :  —  The  snow  is  falling  thickly.  The 


172  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

ground  is  covered.  The  anatomy  of  the  trees 
shows  dimly  dark  in  the  storm.  The  day  is 
windless.  Down  the  curving  white  hill-road, 
beneath  the  indefinite,  overhanging  branches,  a 
large  flock  of  sheep  is  being  driven  to  the  village. 
Their  fleece  shows  a  dun,  yellowish  gray  in  the 
universal  white.  The  man  who  is  driving 
them  is  suggested  merely,  for  the  snow  is  falling 
so  thickly. 

6. 

A  really  choice  etching  shows  the  Chicago 
River  near  its  entrance  into  the  lake  :  —  The 
blackened  warehouses,  the  dark  sluggish  water, 
the  cobweb  of  mast  and  rigging;  and  out  in 
the  lake  a  glimpse  of  a  leviathan  whaleback, 
all  seen  —  as  I  have  seen  it  so  many  times  — 
through  smoke  of  tugs,  under  lowering,  smoke- 
filled  skies. 

7- 

Another  is  of  Birmingham,  England;  just  a 
glimpse  such  as  one  might  obtain  from  a  car 
window  as  the  train  draws  to  a  standstill  :  — 
An  overlook  on  black  chimney-pots,  soot-black 
ened  houses,  dark  back  yards  filled  with  un- 


A  PRIVATE  VIEW  173 

namable  refuse  in  an  all-pervading  atmosphere 
of  smoke  and  grime.  In  the  yard  directly 
beneath  the  track,  —  from  that  vantage  ground 
I  received  the  impression,  —  two  men  are  locked 
savagely  in  a  brute  struggle ;  women  lean  from 
the  narrow  black  casements  above  them. 

8. 

Far  away  in  Scotland  there  is  another  lake  I 
love  —  Loch  Earn  and  its  clachan  of  St.  Fillans. 
This  impression  also  will  remain  with  me  to  the 
end. 

The  Earn  rushes  from  the  lake  at  the  "lug 
o'  the  loch".  The  surrounding  heights  are 
purple  and  rose,  for  the  heather  is  in  full  bloom. 
The  lintels  of  the  low,  stone  houses,  mere  huts, 
are  covered  with  the  great  yellow  disks  of 
Gloire  de  Dijon  roses.  The  mountains  outline 
the  shore  so  closely  that  they  leave  but  one 
narrow  space  for  a  roadway  between  the  lake 
and  the  gray  houses  hunched  against  the  heights. 
Beneath  some  lindens  on  the  level  river  bank 
three  lassies  are  beating  their  linen  white  on 
large,  flat  stones. 


174  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

9- 

There  are  so  many  lovely  works  on  the  walls 
of  memory !  But  in  this  little  special  room 
there  is  space  for  only  a  few  more.  Their  titles 
will  give  a  hint  of  their  beauties. 

Bass  Rock  off  the  Scotch  coast  in  a  September 
gale  and  thousands  of  gulls  seeking  refuge  on  it. 

A  funeral  procession  in  Venice.  I  saw  it 
from  a  gondola  as  we  were  passing  beneath 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  :  white  gondola,  white  cata 
falque  covered  with  white  roses,  priests  in  white 
robes  —  suddenly  rounding  a  dark  turning  of 
the  narrow  canal.  A  shaft  of  yellow  sunshine 
falls  athwart  the  procession  and  lights  the  dark 
green  waters. 

Two  etchings.  One  of  the  Ghetto  in  Frank 
furt,  when  Ghetto  signified,  in  truth,  as  to  city 
districts,  "separation".  The  other  is  the  Mer- 
cato  Vecchio  in  Florence  before  modern  im 
provements  had  in  part  despoiled  it. 

I  may  not  describe  them  all.  But  the  Kana- 
wha  Valley  has  one  to  its  credit;  and  Altoona 
among  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania,  as  I 


A  PRIVATE  VIEW  175 

saw  it  at  midnight,  in  deep  snow,  and  the  fierce 
glare  of  the  coke  furnaces  staining  the  whiteness 
blood  red. 

Nantucket,  of  course,  has  already  several. 
One  shall  suffice;  it  is  so  homely,  and  insular, 
and  cozy,  and  Nantuckety  !  A  tiny  lane,  cob 
ble-paved.  The  gable  of  a  small  barn  takes  up 
a  part  of  one  side ;  it  is  overrun  with  the  vines 
of  the  wild  grape.  A  load  of  hay  fills  the  lane 
from  side  to  side,  and  beyond  it,  down  the  short, 
steep  slope  are  the  blue  waters  of  the  harbor 
and  the  white  sail  of  a  catboat  closing  the  vista. 


XIII 

THE   WINDS 
I. 

Eheu  —  eheu  —  eheu  ! 

No,  I  have  never  known  before  that  the  wind 
had  a  gamut  of  its  own  —  basal  note,  overtones, 
undertones,  octaves,  sharps  and  flats ;  that  it 
can  drone  like  a  bagpipe,  shrill  like  a  police 
man's  burglar  alarm,  howl  in  three  keys,  roar 
with  the  noise  of  a  thousand  blast  furnaces, 
screech  like  a  Brobdignagian  Banshee,  squeak 
like  a  troll,  thunder  as  well  as  croon  in  the 
chimneys,  find  a  crack  in  a  seemingly  tight 
window  frame  and  issue  through  it  into  one's 
bedroom  in  the  crescendo-diminuendo  tremulo 
of  a  screech-owl. 

I  never  knew  before  that  it  could  "confuse 
one's  head",  deafen  one  to  all  noises  but  its 
own,  even  drown  thought  in  its  mad  chaos  of 
sound. 

176 


THE  WINDS  177 

Yes,  it  can  do  all  this  and  do  it  thoroughly, 
with  a  whole-heartedness  that  would  be  admi 
rable  if  exerted  in  another  cause. 

2. 

The  great  winds  in  Dante's  Inferno  have 
always  been  to  me  very  impressive,  very  poet 
ical,  but  they  are  in  print;  they  are  not  the 
winds  that  sweep  over  this  island.  ^Eolus, 
also,  has  some  notable  winds  that  he  let  loose 
in  the  ^Eneid ;  they,  too,  are  poetical,  but  arti 
ficial.  We  rarely  have  that  kind  here. 

Now  and  then  in  summer  we  have  a  gentle 
ten-mile-an-hour  breeze  that  cajoles  us  for  a 
time  into  thinking  it  is  going  to  continue,  and 
that  for  the  rest  of  the  season  we  are  safe  from 
any  rude  force.  But  generally  it  races  over  the 
moors  at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles  hourly,  increas 
ing  to  thirty-five  out  of  sheer  caprice  and  set 
tling  down  to  a  forty-mile  pace  to  which  we  have 
become  accustomed ;  we  find  no  fault  with  it. 

At  times,  with  due  warning,  it  increases  its 
steady-going  pace  to  fifty,  fifty-five,  and  sixty 
miles  an  hour.  There  is  apparently  no  wrath 


178  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

manifest  in  this ;  it  merely  shows  what  it  can 
do  when  something  out  of  the  ordinary  is  ex 
pected  of  it.  On  such  occasions,  the  "out-of- 
the-ordinary"  is  "no  boat  leaving  Nantucket". 

3- 

Unexpectedly,  at  intervals,  it  arises  in  sudden 
wrath  —  wherefore  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea. 
Weather-bureau  "areas  of  high-pressure  and 
low-pressure"  have  nothing  to  do  with  these 
particular  ebullitions  of  ours ;  no  storm  signals 
are  displayed  by  any  order  from  Washington. 
The  wind  simply  arises  in  its  wrath  and  per 
forms  one  of  its  offices  on  this  earth  :  that  of 
blowing  at  the  rate  of  seventy  miles  for  every 
sixty  minutes.  I  wonder  sometimes  if  it  has 
itself  got  wind  —  via  some  wireless  of  its  own  — 
of  a  young  hurricane's  birth  in  the  West  Indies, 
and  is  determined  not  to  be  outdone  by  such  a 
pygmy ;  or  has  it  heard  from  some  bird  of  pas 
sage  that  a  cyclone  is  contemplating  the  devas 
tation  of  a  large  tract  in  Kansas  and,  believing 
in  competition,  starts  in  to  compete  ?  How 
ever  that  may  be,  blow  it  does  —  I  might  say 


THE  WINDS  179 

for  all  it  is  worth,  but  that  would  not  be  accord 
ing  to  evidence,  for  it  has  yet  greater  "stunts" 
to  show  us. 

My  young  girl  friends  laugh  at  me  good- 
naturedly  on  account  of  my  misuse  of  a  phrase  of 
modern  slang.  They  assert  it  is  orthodox  to  say 
a  "corking  stunt".  I,  on  the  other  hand,  insist 
on  reversing  that  phrase  and  hold  that  nothing 
less  than  a  "stunting  corker"  can  express 
certain  meanings.  I  feel  convinced  that  if  they 
lived  here  at  those  rare  times  when  the  wind 
from  the  southwest  is  blowing  at  the  rate  of 
seventy-two  miles  an  hour,  with  an  extra  puff 
of  ninety,  they  would  understand  that  my  slang 
is  much  more  to  the  point  than  theirs.  That 
wind  of  the  twenty-second  of  February,  1912, 
was  most  emphatically  a  "stunting  corker". 

But  at  this  rate  of  seventy  miles,  I  look  to 
see  if  the  window  frames  show  any  sign  of  blow 
ing  in,  or  if  a  passing  carriage  when  it  issues 
from  the  lee  of  the  house  will  turn  turtle  in  the 
street. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  happens.  All  sorts  of 
vehicles  pursue  their  way  undisturbed.  I  have 


i8o  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

noticed  that  even  the  horses'  tails  do  not  blow 
sideways  under  the  nearly  eighty  pounds  pres 
sure  to  the  square  inch,  and  the  drivers'  caps 
never  make  a  motion  to  leave  the  heads  beneath 
them.  The  window  frames  and  panes  are 
intact.  The  wind  subsides  as  quickly  as  it 

arose  and  resumes  its  steady  jog. 

i 
I 

4- 

I  understand  now  why  these  old  town  houses 
stand  four-square,  without  additions  of  any 
kind  save  a  small  lean-to,  to  the  winds  that  blow. 
Even  the  steady  nerves  of  the  pioneers  might 
have  been  a  little  shaken  if  the  wind,  in  its 
wild  sweep  over  this  island,  had  caught  under 
wide,  overhanging  eaves  or  beneath  any  ex 
traneous  roof  over  an  open  space. 

These  houses,  one  and  all,  shake  under  the 
impact  of  the  heavy  wind,  shake  and  give  a 
little.  Doubtless  they  were  built  loose-jointed, 
like  the  wooden  hull  of  bark  or  schooner  or  brig- 
antine,  in  order  to  yield  a  little  to  the  strain. 
(It  would  be  well  for  us  humans  to  consider 
ourselves  built  a  little  that  way;  we  should 


THE  WINDS  181 

yield  more  gracefully  under  strain  and  pressure 
of  circumstance;  there  would  be  less  danger 
of  collapse  after  resistance.)  I  feel  sure  if  these 
houses  were  not  pliable  to  some  slight  degree 
in  their  joints  and  joists,  rafters  and  uprights, 
they  would  capsize  in  some  of  these  gales,  or,  at 
least,  be  blown  from  their  foundations. 

But  no;  there  they  stand,  staunch,  and 
square,  and  squat  —  most  of  them  —  and  solid. 
I  look  anxiously  to  see  the  shingles  ruffed  on 
the  roofs  like  the  hooks  of  a  teazle.  Not  at  all. 
Not  even  a  loose  one  has  blown  into  the  street 
in  all  its  length  and  breadth  ! 

I  marvel  that  an  old  hunched  chimney  here 
and  there  does  not  succumb,  at  least  lose  a 
brick  from  the  top  layer;  that  the  numberless 
scuttles  in  the  garrets  are  not  lifted  from  their 
hinges;  that  numerous  "Captain's  Walks"  — 
the  balustraded  open  promenade  on  the  roof, 
a  kind  of  ridge-pole  balcony  peculiar  to  this 
town  —  are  not  sailing  off  into  the  street  or 
harbor. 

Nothing  happens.  The  town  after  a  heavy 
gale  is  in  statu  quo  ante.  In  the  harbor,  to  be 


182  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

sure,  a  catboat  or  rowboat,  left  to  breast  the 
storm  as  best  it  can,  may  sink.  The  low  dikes 
on  the  Point  may  be  overridden  by  the  waves, 
a  thousand  feet  of  lumber  be  floated  off  the 
wharf ;  the  beach  at  'Sconset  or  the  South  Shore 
be  eaten  away  for  twenty  feet  by  the  force  of 
the  seas.  But,  apart  from  this,  there  seems  to 
be  only  the  terror  of  the  element  itself  that  has 
any  effect ;  nerves  suffer  most.  It  is  impos 
sible  to  sleep  on  these  rare  nights  of  terrific 
storm  —  I  mean  when  the  gale  rages  at  seventy 
miles  an  hour  for  eight  hours,  with  gusts  of 
ninety  to  its  discredit. 

There  is  one  thing  in  favor  of  these  winds 
here  :  they  may  blow  sometimes  with  hurricane 
force,  but  it  is  a  steady  hurricane  movement. 
There  is  nothing  cyclonic  about  it.  If  there 
were  — 

5- 

It  is  curious  to  study  the  effect  of  the  strong 
persistent  winds  on  the  growths  of  the  moors. 
The  pine  plantations  have  had  a  fearful  struggle 
to  maintain  their  foothold.  Each  individual 
tree  makes  a  good  fight,  but  the  result,  in  time, 


THE  WINDS  183 

as  with  us  humans  when  circumstances  of  envi 
ronment  are  too  adverse,  is  dwarfed  growth, 
slow  development,  ofttimes  distortion  in  some 
form.  We  see  these  gnarled  trunks  indicative 
apparently  of  great  age,  in  height  but  six  or  ten 
feet ;  yet  by  good  pine  rights  they  should  be 
in  their  sturdy  prime. 

The  wind  beats  them  down  as  seedlings,  keeps 
them  down ;  yet  they,  persistently  vigorous, 
willing  to  live  in  their  natural  piney  way,  live 
despite  their  windy  environment,  but  in  the 
struggle  for  existence  become  stunted,  twisted. 
There  is  no  evidence  of  youth  in  them,  although 
these  plantations  date  from  a  few  decades 
only. 

Compare  with  these  my  two  white  pines  on 
the  slope  of  the  hill  below  my  mountain  home  ! 
They  have  had  the  benefit  of  right  environment 
—  sunshine,  space,  a  north  exposure  to  toughen ; 
and  there  they  stand,  seventy  feet  of  beauty,  fifty 
feet  of  soft,  blue-green  pine  boughs,  and  a 
straight  shaft  of  a  trunk  that  sends  the  thought 
to  every  pillar  of  strength  in  Egyptian  temple 
or  cathedral  nave. 


1 84  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

6. 

The  bayberry,  also,  has  its  struggle  for  exist 
ence. 

I  know  a  spot  on  the  coast  of  Penobscot  Bay, 
near  Camden,  where  I  have  walked  along 
paths  that  the  bayberry  overarched.  The 
leaves  were  long,  glossy,  rich  in  aromatic 
scent  —  a  fragrance  that  creates  in  me  a  wild 
longing  for  the  sea  whenever  I  catch  something 
akin  to  its  pungency  from  slowly  ascending 
incense  in  an  inland  church  or  cathedral. 

Here  the  bayberry  is  a  lowly,  humble  thing. 
Beaten  down  by  wind,  sustained  only  on  sandy 
soil,  it  nevertheless  makes  its  own  way  in  time 
and  reaches  the  height  of  two  or,  at  most,  three 
feet.  Like  the  pines  it  is  misshapen ;  it  has 
turned  and  twisted  in  vain  endeavor  to  aspire 
to  a  greater  height.  And  look  at  its  berries,  as 
if  they  were  contemporary  with  the  cave  men  ! 
They  are  wrinkled  as  if  with  the  passing  of  the 
ages,  and  hoar  as  if  with  the  frosts  of  seons. 
They  are  positively  uncanny  at  times.  But 
when  a  bayberry  branch,  loaded  with  its  irregu- 


THE  WINDS  185 

lar  swarms  of  little,  wrinkled,  gray  berries,  the 
size  of  allspice,  is  laid  on  the  hearth  and  lighted 
—  ah,  then  they  are  no  longer  uncanny  in  our 
eyes  !  They  crisp  and  exude  and  sizzle  as  they 
burn  with  flame  of  wax  and  flash  of  leaf  !  Their 
fragrance  rises  into  the  nostrils,  and  all  the  con 
centrated  essence  of  the  lowly  moorland  plant- 
life  seems  to  ascend  as  in  incense  from  the  home- 
hearth. 

7- 

Last  Christmas  evening  I  made  a  bayberry 
fire,  feeding  the  first  large  branch  on  the  hearth 
with  another  and  yet  another  —  and  far  away 
in  the  West  there  were  three  lovers  of  these 
moors  who,  with  a  precious  tiny  branch,  did  the 
same  for  two  households.  In  the  west  of  the 
Empire  State  there  was  still  another  hearth 
from  which  a  little  branch  of  that  same  bay- 
berry  sent  its  incense-smoke  up  chimney.  And 
one  there  was,  a  lover  of  the  moorland  in 
all  its  moods  and  tenses,  but  without  a  home- 
hearth  on  which  to  burn  so  much  as  one  wee, 
wizened,  waxen,  gray  berry  —  who,  nevertheless, 
enjoyed  the  flaming  hearthfire  in  spirit.  And 


1 86  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

who  shall  say  that  that  enjoyment  yields  less 
than  does  the  material  ? 

8. 

The  wind  was  rising  as  I  laid  the  last  branch 
on  the  hearth,  rising  in  its  might  as  we  were  well 
aware  by  midnight.  Then  it  was  that  we  of 
the  island  looked  to  our  fires,  covered  carefully 
the  embers  on  the  hearth  with  ashes ;  ran  the 
furnace  as  low  as  consistent  with  a  decent 
amount  of  comfort.  Then  it  was  that  windows 
were  wedged  before  we  "turned  in"  ;  doors  well 
fastened  ;  all  things  made  tight  and  close-hauled 
to  outride  the  increasing  gale. 

All  that  night  it  howled  across  the  moors 
from  the  eastern  main.  Hour  after  hour  its 
force  increased.  Again  and  again  I  rose  and 
looked  out  into  the  blackness  of  the  night,  just 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  gleam  and  flash  of 
my  trusty  Sankaty  beacon.  I  listened  to  a 
veritable  chaos  of  sound.  It  was  wind 'alone 
—  just  wind ;  no  snow,  no  rattling  of  wires,  no 
jiggling  of  blinds,  no  loose  board,  no  rumbling 
under  the  shallow  eaves.  No,  it  was  just  one 


THE  WINDS  187 

steady,  roaring  howl  in  which  it  was  hard  to 
think  collectedly  so  rilled  were  the  ears  with 
the  steady  pressure  of  sound-waves. 

But  Sankaty  was  there  shining  fairly  brightly 
throughout  the  night  although  the  spindrift 
obscured  its  brilliancy  and  the  seas  were  gnaw 
ing  at  the  beach  below  the  bluff.  In  the  street, 
the  watch  —  the  men  who  in  shifts  patrol  the 
town  on  nights  of  terrific  storm  as  a  precaution 
in  case  of  fire  —  held  hardily  on  their  way, 
although  a  footstep  could  no  more  be  heard  in 
that  stupendous  onrush  of  air  than  could  the 
sound  of  a  tiny  pebble  dropped  into  the  depths 
of  the  Canyon  of  the  Colorado. 

I  have  always  been  amused  at  the  nautical 
expression  "the  roaring  forties".  I  do  not  find 
it  a  subject  for  much  mirth  now  that  I  am  here 
on  this  island  outpost,  for  I  am  experiencing 
what  it  is  to  live  in  them. 


XIV 

LITTLE    GARDENS    BY   THE    SEA 
I. 

ANY  flower  that  grows  for  me,  grows,  I  am 
convinced,  solely  by  the  grace  of  God. 

Through  no  tending,  no  care,  no  watchful 
ness  of  mine  will  they  flourish  and  bloom.  If 
now  and  then  a  blossom  shows  itself  in  an  apolo 
getic  manner,  if  a  sudden  blooming  of  dahlias 
surprises  me  after  I  have  given  up  hope  even 
for  a  few,  if  a  belated  rose  puts  forth  from  a 
leafless  stock,  I  am  joyfully  and  profoundly 
grateful  to  the  processes  of  nature  that  have 
produced  them ;  but  there  remains  an  humble 
recognition  on  my  part  of  my  limitations  in 
floriculture. 

I  can  raise  puppies,  kittens,  if  absolutely 
necessary,  and  chickens  whether  necessary  or 
otherwise  —  I  really  think  unendingly.  I  never 
"keep  poultry",  but  I  have  raised  dozens, 

188 


LITTLE  GARDENS   BY  THE  SEA         189 

yes,  hundreds  of  chickens  by  the  natural  method 
simply  for  the  pure  enjoyment  of  browbeating 
obsessed  hens  into  "staying  put",  of  conquer 
ing  and,  I  must  confess,  being  conquered. 
Somehow  it  is  never  humiliating  for  me  to  be 
outwitted  by  a  hen.  She  is  of  my  own  sex  and 
her  wiles  are  known  to  me ;  we  are  well  mated 
when  we  strive  for  the  mastery. 

There  was  always  method  in  my  —  to  the 
household  —  seeming  madness.  About  the  first 
of  March  I  visited  certain  neighbors  and  asked 
if  they  had  a  good,  sitting-inclined  hen  to  sell. 
I  generally  found  six  ancient  dames  of  whose 
torment  their  owners  were  glad  to  be  rid. 

One,  I  remember,  was  a  spasmodic  producer 
and  always  laid  on  the  top  of  a  box,  in  a  cold 
shed.  In  winter  if  the  egg  by  chance  remained 
on  the  top  of  the  box,  it  was  frozen ;  otherwise 
it  rolled  to  the  shed  floor  and  was  useless.  After 
the  laying  period  was  over,  this  worthy  con 
tinued  to  sit  on  the  bare  box-top  trying  to  hatch, 
so  far  as  any  one  could  see,  merely  splinters. 
It  was  a  simple  charity  to  provide  her  with  a 
clean  tomato  box,  sweet  hay,  a  warm  nest  and 


190  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

thirteen  eggs  of  Black  Orpingtons  that  cost  me 
two  dollars  for  the  dozen  and  one. 

I  merely  gave  to  her  the  desired  work  and  tried 
to  enable  her  to  fulfil  her  mission  of  hatching 
out  chickens.  But  my  intentions  were  not 
accepted  in  that  light  by  this  special  hen.  She 
wished  to  sit  on  a  bare  box-top  and  indulge  in 
imaginative  hatching.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  I 
watched  her  manceuvrings  to  get  rid  of  all  that 
sweet  hay,  —  shoving  it  to  one  side  of  the 
tomato  box,  working  the  eggs  carefully  from 
under  her  into  the  same  corner  with  the  hay, 
—  and  deliberately  make  a  business  of  sitting 
on  the  bare  bottom  of  that  box,  that  I  had  seen 
something  of  these  traits  of  character  in  human 
beings.  I  had  not  so  very  far  to  seek.  It 
used  always  to  be  for  me  far  easier  to  imagine 
a  thing  done  than  to  make  an  attempt  to  do  it 
in  the  regulation  manner.  If  I  did  it  at  all,  I 
wanted  to  do  it  my  own  way. 

Recognizing  my  own  shortcomings,  I  made  it 
a  matter  of  fellowship,  as  well  as  patience,  in 
dealing  with  this  special  hen.  I  patiently  filled 
hot-water  bottles  and  kept  the  ignored  eggs 


LITTLE  GARDENS   BY  THE  SEA         191 

warm  until  such  time  as  the  old  dame  could 
be  put  back  on  them  and  tied  down  to  her  task. 
At  this  point,  she  unaccountably  developed 
an  extra  set  of  muscles  by  which  she  could  raise 
herself  one  inch  from  those  costly  eggs  and, 
remaining  in  that  position,  allow  a  cooling  draft 
to  play  continually  over  them. 

I  tried  starving  her  into  sitting  on  them.  I 
tried  overfeeding  her  to  make  her  heavy.  I 
tried  allowing  her  to  range  as  far  as  fifteen  feet 
of  clothes-line  tied  around  her  right  leg,  pro 
tected  by  a  bit  of  flannel,  would  permit  —  I 
meanwhile  seeing  to  it  that  the  eggs  did  not 
get  too  cool.  She  chose  to  remain  off  the  nest 
sometimes  one  hour,  sometimes  six.  When  she 
returned  to  the  small  box,  —  I  had  to  substitute 
a  starch-box  as  it  allowed  no  freedom  of  move 
ment,  —  she  invariably  stepped  on  those  eggs 
as  if  she  weighed  fifteen  pounds. 

Of  course  I  had  to  give  it  up.  I  was  dealing 
with  a  natural  force,  and  my  pygmy  efforts  to 
counterbalance  it  could  end  only  in  disaster. 

But  she  was  only  one  of  so  many !  There 
were  some  who  insisted  upon  remaining  on  the 


192  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

nest  from  morning  till  night  and  from  night  till 
dewy  dawn  for  nearly  the  entire  period  of  incu 
bation.  The  poor  eggs  never  had  a  chance  to 
cool  off  as  they  should  in  a  natural  way.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done  with  these  but  let  them 
sit,  grow  thin,  their  combs  white,  their  eyes 
ditto,  and  count  the  days  for  their  deliverance 
from  such  obsession.  I  tried  forcible  feeding, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  obsession  had 
culminated  in  lockjaw. 

But  I  enjoyed  all  this  true  sport  keenly  and 
raised  chickens  by  the  fifties.  I  remember  that 
I  lost  but  one  chicken  after  hatching.  I  played 
various  roles  —  and  I  do  not  flatter  myself  when 
I  assert  that  I  played  them  well  —  during  the 
process.  I  acted  as  midwife  to  several  unfortu 
nates  who,  closely  confined  in  a  Plymouth  Rock 
shell,  as  hard,  apparently,  as  the  proverbial 
New  World  threshold  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
peeped  continuously  within  those  walls  to  be 
set  at  liberty. 

I  have  improvised  incubation  in  the  hour 
after  midnight,  —  I  confess  to  the  disgruntle- 
ment  and  distraction  of  the  household,  —  with 


LITTLE  GARDENS  BY  THE  SEA         193 

a  clothes-line  across  the  attic,  a  kettle,  flannels, 
and  a  judiciously  placed  kerosene  lamp. 

I  have  taken  advantage  of  the  power  of  the 
sun's  rays,  remembering  certain  proceedings  in 
far  away  Africa,  and  when  the  thermometer 
indicated  101  degrees  Fahrenheit  in  the  shade 
of  a  July  day,  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  I  have 
finished  in  a  truly  scientific  manner  a  deserting 
hen's  job. 

I  have  turned  strike-breaker,  and  used  the 
oven  of  the  kitchen  stove  to  bring  success  to  a 
worthy  cause. 

Somehow  I  succeeded ;  the  chickens  were 
hatched;  they* throve.  I  lost  but  one  among 
those  many.  I  never  paid  the  slightest  atten 
tion  to  any  rules  for  up-to-date  poultry  "feed". 
I  read  about  it  as  I  found  it  in  poultry  books  and 
Grange  Weeklies.  I  invested  in  this  literature 
until  experience  taught  me  that  all  poultry  is 
not  alike  in  its  tastes.  I  fed  the  fluffy,  downy 
balls,  so  soon  as  they  had  dried  off,  with  a 
strictly  grown-up  diet  :  cracked  corn  and  water. 
They  throve  on  it,  although  I  confess  I  had  to 
introduce  them  forcibly  to  this  special  diet 


194  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

because  they  were  only  a  few  hours  old  and 
needed  to  be  helped  to  pick  and  swallow.  But 
the  digestion  proved  to  be  perfect,  and,  after 
all,  that  is  the  chief  end  in  animal  life. 

When  they  were  about  ten  days  old  and 
scratching  with  a  tenacity  of  purpose  and 
energy  worthy  of  aeons  of  scratching  inheritance, 
I  gave  them  to  my  neighbors,  —  all  of  them  : 
Black  Orpingtons,  Plymouth  Rocks,  Rhode 
Island  Reds,  and  White  Wyandottes. 

I  used  to  present  myself  with  twenty  or  more 
in  my  apron  at  a  neighbor's  back  door.  I 
always  noticed  that  the  man  of  the  house  showed 
real  appreciation  of  my  gift ;  but  the  spindle 
side  looked  at  me  and  the  chicks  askance. 

I  once  made  bold  to  ask  the  reason,  when  I 
presented  an  autumn  "hatching".  I  found 
that  the  spindle  side  had  to  prepare  the  "warm 
mash"  —  a  disagreeable  task.  I  do  not  blame 
her  for  feeling  aggrieved  at  my  gift.  There  is 
a  limit  even  to  chicken  raising.  I  should 
draw  the  line  at  making  "warm  mash"  of  a 
winter's  morning  when  the  mercury  was  near 
the  bulb  of  the  thermometer  and  the  mash  half 


LITTLE  GARDENS  BY  THE  SEA         195 

frozen  before  it  reached  the  hen  house.  I  said 
nothing  about  the  "cracked  corn"  diet.  Each 
of  us  makes  his  own  experiment  with  life. 

2. 

As  I  have  said  —  I  fear  in  a  manner  too  prolix 
—  I  can  raise  anything  belonging  to  the  animal 
kingdom,  but  with  flowers,  for  which  I  really 
care,  I  fail  ignominiously. 

I  have  no  garden  as  yet.  My  back  yard  with 
its  situation,  capabilities,  and  possibilities  would 
require  a  Frederick  Law  Olmsted  to  do  it 
justice. 

It  really  has  wonderful  capabilities  for  some 
thing  little  less  inferior  to  the  sloping  gardens 
of  the  Rhine  —  those  you  may  see  just  before 
you  reach  Bonn  —  or  those  of  the  Borromean 
Islands,  I  see  it  as  it  might  be,  could  I  afford 
to  "dike"  it,  terrace  it,  grade  it,  build  a  pergola 
for  it  through  the  vine-covered  vistas  of  which 
would  be  seen  the  gray  roofs,  the  great  gray 
chimneys,  the  little,  gray,  fishermen's  huts  of 
that  part  of  the  town  which  lies  below  Orange 
Street  Bank;  and,  beyond  them,  those  harbor 


196  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

waters  changing,  forever  changing  above  shoals 
and  channels  —  indigo,  ultramarine,  sapphire 
blue,  gentian  blue,  blue  of  peacock's  rings,  blue 
of  lapis-lazuli,  each  and  severally  crossed  with 
the  pale  whitish  green  of  jade,  green  of  Nile, 
green  of  Niagara  above  the  cave  of  the  winds, 
green  of  beryl  and  porphyry.  I  see  it  all  as  it 
can  and  should  be  !  Whether  it  will  ever  attain 
to  such  metamorphosis  remains  doubtful. 

Meanwhile  I  manage  to  enjoy  it  as  it  is. 

At  present  a  portion  of  my  back  yard  con 
sists  of  stubble  from  an  experimental  "vege 
table  patch".  Peas,  beans,  cucumbers,  lettuce, 
thrive  for  me.  I  plant  them  —  and  Nature  is 
kind;  she  does  the  rest  without  much  effort 
on  my  part.  I  can  hoe  a  row  of  beans  as  well 
as  any  one  and  enjoy  the  exercise.  But  let 
me  take  between  my  thumb  and  forefinger  a 
tiny,  nickel-plated,  up-to-date  flower- weeder  and 
within  ten  minutes  I  am  in  a  state  of  exhaustion ; 
so  are  the  flowers.  Only  the  weeds  seem  to 
hold  their  own  under  the  manipulation  of  my 
patent  weeder. 

It   is    discouraging   to   plant  —  yes,    and   to 


LITTLE  GARDENS   BY  THE   SEA         197 

water,  to  hope  and  anticipate,  "Another  year 
and  they  will  yield  !"  and,  in  the  end,  see  no 
fruition.  I  turn  to  my  peas  and  beans  for  con 
solation.  They  yield  abundantly  and,  looked 
at  carefully,  a  bean  or  pea  blossom,  though  shy 
in  blooming,  is  really  charmingly  decorative; 
but  I  cannot  pick  them  to  that  end  and  so 
sacrifice  future  beans  and  peas  ! 

Last  year  there  was  a  seven  weeks'  drought, 
and  my  courage  waned  in  the  third  week.  I 
gave  over  the  garden  to  Fate.  The  dahlias' 
little  green  nubs  dried  up  and  fell  off.  The 
nasturtiums  were  as  if  they  had  not  been. 
The  trumpet  vine  bore  one  superb  blossom  — 
blew  its  own  trumpet,  in  fact,  to  proclaim  that 
it  lived,  and  then  lost  every  leaf.  The  wistaria 
attempted  a  wholly  out  of  season  blossoming, 
—  I  have  become  accustomed  to  this  freak  blos 
soming  in  my  garden,  —  but  the  attempt  proved 
abortive.  The  rose  bushes,  "warranted  field- 
grown  for  two  years",  I  found  by  the  first  of 
August  as  mere  bare  stocks  among  an  enormous 
crop  of  Bouncing  Bets,  a  legacy  from  a  long- 
neglected,  former  ownership.  They  covered 


198  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

the  place  I  call  a  lawn,  rioted  in  the  vegetable 
garden,  overflowed  down  the  bank,  and  gave 
cheer  to  desolation  till  they,  too,  dried  and 
showed  nothing  but  a  crop  of  little  brown 
pompons. 

The  tomato  blossoms  along  a  fifty-foot  hedge 
of  them  —  I  set  out  thirty-seven  bushes  for  a 
small  family  —  fell  off  before  a  tomato  could  set. 
Some  cosmos  was  lost  in  dry  grass. 

It  is  hard  to  cultivate  faith,  hope,  and  charity, 
when  contemplating  such  a  garden ;  to  use  a 
Western  phrase  it  is  a  "proposition".  Still 
I  am  always  aware  of  the  possibilities  of  this 
garden  of  mine  —  under  another  owner. 

At  least,  there  was  one  satisfaction  for  me 
at  this  crisis.  Having  accepted  the  drought, 
I  gave  up  all  care  and  thought  of  the  garden 
and  in  consequence  found  I  was  accomplishing 
much  that  in  other  household  directions  was 
necessary.  The  truth  is  it  was  no  longer  on 
my  mind.  My  neighbors  have  superlatively 
lovely  gardens,  and  they,  pitying  me,  were 
kind.  My  bowls  and  vases  were  filled  from 
their  largess. 


LITTLE  GARDENS   BY  THE  SEA         199 

But  the  miracle  happened  !  right  here  in  this 
desolate,  little,  back-yard  garden.  We  had  a 
few  days  of  rain ;  another  week  of  it  —  I  had 
not  thought  to  look  at  my  kiln-dried  flora  — 
and  one  morning  when  I  went  out  to  pick  a 
ripened  cucumber  I  found  my  dahlias  a-bloom, 
my  green  tomatoes  as  big  as  thimbles,  my  Sweet 
Alyssum  bed  a  mass  of  white  fragrance.  Some 
nasturtiums  were  as  large  as  the  entirely  decep 
tive  plates  on  garden-book  covers.  The  cosmos 
was  flourishing;  a  heliotrope  in  blossom,  and 
one  solitary  tea  rose  trying  to  put  forth  on  its 
leafless  stock  —  in  fact,  a  resurrected  garden  ! 

I  was  happily  enabled  to  fill  my  own  bowls 
and  vases  with  my  own  blooms  until  the  first 
of  November. 

3- 

My  neighbors'  gardens  are  a  joy  to  me;  as 
is  every  other  garden  —  except  my  own  —  large 
and  small,  on  this  island.  They  are  unique. 
There  are  no  imitations.  You  find  no  dupli 
cates  among  them.  The  owner  of  a  successful 
garden  said  quite  recently  to  me  :  "You  can 
make  anything  grow  in  Nantucket  if  you  try." 


200  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

I  accepted  this  statement  with  one  mental 
reservation  pertaining  to  me  and  my  efforts. 

Beneath  the  bank  there  is  a  garden,  a  corner 
of  which  I  can  overlook  from  my  upper  balcony. 
On  a  pleasant  day  in  midsummer,  the  scene  is  like 
a  Watteau  fete  or  a  Fragonard.  Under  a  group  of 
fine  trees,  little  tables  with  snow-white  cloths  are 
set  forth  on  the  lawn.  It  is  a  gathering  place 
for  the  afternoon-tea  clans.  The  light,  smart 
dresses,  the  gayly  colored  parasols,  the  coming 
and  going,  the  abundance  of  bright  flowers, 
are  worth  a  journey  across  the  Sound  to  see. 

The  garden  adjacent  is  a  riot  of  color,  but 
there  is  no  attempt  at  formality  or  orderly 
arrangement.  For  this  very  reason  I  find  it 
full  of  charming  surprises. 

4- 

On  one  of  the  longer  streets,  at  the  corner  of 
a  lane,  stands  an  old,  unpretentious  little  house, 
weather-beaten  nearly  black.  In  passing  one 
would  not  give  it  a  second  glance.  Turn  the 
southeast  lane-corner,  however,  and  you  invol 
untarily  halt  with  your  hand  shading  your  eyes 


LITTLE  GARDENS   BY  THE   SEA         201 

if  the  sun  be  shining.  Poppies  are  there, 
thousands  of  them  —  old-fashioned  red  poppies 
that  have  sown  themselves  year  after  year  and 
fill  the  side  yard,  a  space  eighteen  feet  by  thirty 
possibly,  with  a  mass  of  glowing  color.  The 
delicate  silk-like  texture  of  the  petals  is  trans 
lucent  in  the  strong  sunshine. 

5- 

I  have  another  garden  in  mind ;  it  belongs  to 
a  friend.  Great  trees  shade  the  fine  lawn,  and 
in  the  background  the  ample,  double-doored 
breadth  of  an  old,  gray-shingled  barn  is  graced 
with  vines  and  large  clusters  of  shell-pink  roses. 
In  their  season  pink  zinnias,  pink  asters  just 
touch  with  color  the  surroundings  of  the  stately, 
gray  house.  One  lingers  long  at  the  tea  table 
on  the  lawn  to  enjoy  the  color  scheme. 

6. 

Here  and  there  are  stately,  old-fashioned, 
formal  gardens  behind  ten-feet  high  brick  walls 
nearly  smothered  in  ivy  of  two  generations' 
growth. 


202  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

I  know  a  sunken  orchard-garden  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  town.  It  is  surrounded  by  old 
stone  walls  lichened  with  age.  The  trees  are 
gnarled  and  wind-bent.  The  shade  beneath  them 
on  a  warm  summer  day  is  both  deep  and  restful. 
Many  a  time  have  I  leaned  over  the  fence  on  the 
level  of  the  street  and  feasted  my  eyes  on  the 
thrift,  the  beauty  of  these  trees  and  their  set 
ting,  and  the  promise  of  an  apple  harvest  on  a 
side  street ! 

Above  the  wall  there  is  another  fine  garden : 
one  large  grass  plat  surrounded  by  a  wide,  con 
tinuous  flower-bed  that  shows  the  blossoming 
procession  of  the  seasons  from  the  first  crocus, 
daffodil,  and  tulip,  through  peony,  rose,  and 
lily,  to  aster  and  chrysanthemum. 

7- 

Some  of  the  larger  gardens  are  surrounded  by 
hedges  of  privet,  of  wild  rose,  or  honeysuckle  — 
hundreds  of  feet  of  each.  Tiny  gardens,  mere 
side  yards,  show  fences  covered  with  the  last 
named.  Every  little  home  has  its  flower,  or 
flowers.  One,  perhaps,  may  be  graced  with  a 


LITTLE  GARDENS  BY  THE  SEA         203 

wonderful  climbing  rose  that  covers  the  trellis 
over  the  door,  the  gable  and  eaves.  Another 
ranks  hollyhocks  along  its  old,  worn,  side  walls. 
Here  is  a  small  front  garden  space,  ten  by  eight, 
filled  with  lilies;  another  with  nasturtiums; 
a  fourth  with  bachelor's  buttons.  Another 
tiny  six-by-eight-feet  plot  at  a  side  door,  grows 
a  marvellous  blue  hydrangea  four  feet  high. 

A  neighbor's  garden  down  the  street  shows 
all  the  old-fashioned  flowers  in  masses.  When 
the  sun  is  shining  on  this  garden,  I  walk  slowly 
by  just  for  the  sake  of  the  cheeriness  and  color 
it  adds  to  my  day. 

In  June  the  atmosphere  is  charged  with  the 
fragrance  of  this  flower  incense.  The  soft  sea- 
breeze  coming  in  over  the  marshes,  over  these 
gardens  large  and  small,  adds  an  indescribable 
tang  to  olfactory  delight. 

No  wonder  !  for  there  are  gardens  everywhere 
in  the  town  :  gardens  of  yellow  broom  on  the 
cliff -slope  above  the  sea;  gardens  of  purple 
lilacs  all  adown  the  high  banks ;  gardens  of 
quince  and  grape  that  seem  almost  indigenous 
to  this  island,  they  thrive  so  well  and  with  so 


204  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

little  care.  And  in  May,  on  the  moors,  there  is 
one  great  garden  of  pink  and  white  arbutus, 
extraordinarily  large  and  rich  in  fragrance, 
acres  of  purple  and  blue  violets,  acres  of  bluets  ! 
and  later  a  carpet  of  the  tiny  blossom  of  the 
meal-plum  vine. 

8. 

But  there  is  one  garden  to  which  I  give  my 
love.  I  have  named  it  the  Iris  Garden. 

You  may  pass  into  it  through  a  high  white 
gate.  Close  that  behind  you  and  you  shut  out  a 
thoroughfare.  In  part  it  is  a  sunken  garden ; 
at  your  left  is  a  large  bed  of  Japanese  iris,  pale 
blue,  white,  and  yellow,  and  purple.  They 
stand  there  in  a  royal  grace  all  their  own. 
When,  in  the  moonlight,  you  leave  them  to 
follow  the  stepping-stones  laid  in  the  soft  thick 
turf,  you  mount  three  broad,  old,  stone  steps 
and  linger  a  moment  by  the  ivy-wreathed  marble 
sundial  gleaming  white  in  the  refulgent  night. 
Then  you  pass  under  a  vine-covered  arch ;  and 
here  your  feet  would  gladly  stay  for  an  hour, 
for  across  the  lawn,  beyond  arch  and  hedge 
and  climbing  grape,  there  lies  the  silvered  surface 


LITTLE  GARDENS   BY  THE  SEA         205 

of  the  harbor  waters  seen  over  the  flattened, 
full-leaved  tops  of  a  group  of  great  trees  grow 
ing  at  the  foot  of  the  steep,  high  bank. 

I  have  a  small  engraving  of  one  of  Turner's 
most  beautiful  works.  It  shows  a  lake  among 
high  hills ;  into  it  juts  a  small  rocky  peninsula 
which  is  covered  by  a  wonderful  chapel.  The 
moon's  glory  touches  the  lake  along  a  wide  path 
way,  and  its  light  shining  through  the  chapel's 
high,  oriel  windows  transfuses  the  interior. 
Beneath  this  is  written  :  Datur  hora  Quieti. 

In  the  moon-lighted  Iris  Garden  overlooking 
the  sea,  one  of  those  "quiet  hours"  may  be 
experienced. 


XV 


LOW   TIDES 
I. 

IN  the  economy  of  nature  I  know  they  are 
necessary,  but  I  do  not  like  them.  So  often  on 
Penobscot  Bay  I  have  watched  the  tide-pools 
at  the  half  ebb  and  marvelled  at  the  lowly  life 
that  is  dependent  for  existence  on  that  ebb. 

Personally,  I,  too,  have  low  tides,  but  to  what 
economical  purpose  I  fail  to  understand.  It 
may  be  possible  that  I  get  some  sort  of  nutrition 
from  them.  —  I  wonder  ? 

Why  or  how  I  invariably  associate  a  low  tide 
on  the  seashore  with  a  slum  I  cannot  say,  unless 
it  be  that  as  a  small  child  the  sight  of  Dorchester 
flats  at  low  tide  on  a  warm  day,  and  the  unsightli- 
ness  and  unwholesomeness  of  a  portion  of  the 
Back  Bay  in  my  native  city  —  a  lagoon  that 
was  subject  to  a  sluggish  ebb  and  flow  which 

206 


LOW  TIDES  207 

rendered  the  adjacent  streets  and  the  railroad 
tracks  parallel  with  the  Mill-dam  an  abomina 
tion  —  made  an  impression  on  me  that  has 
never  been  effaced. 

These  flats  were  always  to  be  seen  from  the  car 
window  when  I  was  going  to  Cape  Cod  or  to 
New  York,  to  which  latter  city  I  was  taken 
by  my  parents  sometimes  thrice  a  year  between 
the  ages  of  four  and  eight. 

It  is  interesting  to  trace  the  workings  of 
associated  ideas  and  impressions  from  which 
the  law  of  association  is  formulated. 

I  can  say  with  perfect  truth  that  I  felt  it  a 
disgrace  to  be  obliged  to  walk  through  Beach 
or  Albany  Street,  the  approach  at  that  time  to 
the  station.  They  were  not  only  thorough 
fares  of  approach,  they  were  affluents  of  South 
Cove,  one  of  the  notorious  slum  districts  of 
Boston.  Somehow,  I  cannot  say  how,  I  knew 
all  this. 

I  recall  the  row  of  deep,  dingy  basements 
entered  by  steep  flights  of  steps,  the  besmudged 
window  panes  thick  with  dirt,  cobwebs,  flies ; 
the  black  bottles  placed  on  the  sill  for  lure; 


208  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

the  spotted,  black  greasiness  of  the  steps; 
the  blotched,  swollen,  discolored  faces  I  used 
to  see  appear  suddenly  above  the  top  step,  so 
near  to  me,  —  I  was  at  that  age  not  over  three 
feet  above  the  curb,  —  and  the  indescribable 
and  sickening  odor  of  liquors,  smoke,  and  foul 
air  that  came  out  against  me  in  a  tepid  puff  as 
I  passed  them. 

Through  this  purlieu  people  drove  or  walked 
to  the  station.  If  it  chanced  that  the  train, 
after  running  out  a  half  a  mile  through  mouldy, 
clothes-behung  brick  walls  and  the  sickening 
sights  of  South  Cove's  crowded  tenement  life, 
came  upon  Dorchester  flats  lying  slimy-green, 
fetid  in  the  hot  sun,  baring  to  the  unaccus 
tomed  eye  tin  cans  and  city  refuse,  showing 
boats  on  their  beam  ends,  and  I  heard  the 
words  "low  tide",  or  if  the  car  window  was  shut 
quite  against  my  desire  as  the  train  skirted 
the  deadly  lagoon,  I  naturally  associated  low 
tides  with  slums,  unsightly  flats,  and  the  Back 
Bay  abominations. 

I  recall,  also,  that  once  when  a  child  I  was 
taken  with  one  of  my  cousins  by  an  uncle-in-law 


LOW  TIDES  209 

for  the  first  time  to  the  region  of  the  wharves. 
Some  friend  of  his  was  a  passenger  on  a  merchant 
ship.  The  ship  was  to  sail  the  next  day  for 
South  America ;  she  lay  a  little  way  out  in  the 
stream.  We  were  rowed  out  to  her.  The  night 
was  dark.  I  remember  the  long,  quivering 
gleams  of  yellow  light  on  the  water ;  they  were 
the  cabin,  mast,  and  stern  lights  of  the  great 
ship. 

On  our  return  we  came  up  through  North 
Street,  at  that  time  another  notorious  slum 
district  of  the  city.  I  remember  the  uncle 
hurried  us  on  at  a  pace  not  suited  to  our  shorter 
legs.  There  was  music  of  a  kind  all  about  us,  a 
glare  of  red  lamps,  here  and  there  a  blazing  gas 
jet,  the  sight  of  men  and  women  dancing  in 
basement  or  upper  hall,  and  the  sound  of  singing, 
laughing,  shrieking  from  above  and  below  and 
from  the  saloons  around  us.  Above  the  con 
fusion  I  could  hear  the  "fiddle",  the  sharp 
click  of  "clappers",  and  the  chink  of  what  I 
know  now  to  have  been  "castanets". 

"The  pains  of  hell  never  gat  hold  upon  me" 
after  my  childish  eyes  had  once  looked  on  that 


210  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

limbo ;  for,  somehow,  I  knew  then  as  well  as  I 
know  now  that  what  my  too  young  eyes 
had  looked  on  that  night  was  "hell",  and  that 
the  home  which  sheltered  my  little  life,  fostered 
in  love,  was  "heaven",  and  that  both  were 
made  on  this  earth. 

I  doubt  if  any  theology  that  intimated  there 
might  be  a  "better  place"  or  a  "worse  place" 
than  these  two  of  which  I  had  become  cognizant, 
could  have  made  the  slightest  impression  on  me 
in  after  years.  I  only  know  that  all  my  life 
I  have  been  free  from  such  theological  concep 
tion.  At  that  time  there  were  several  years  of 
Bible-reading  impressions  behind  me.  Nothing 
said  in  that  book  about  "  hell "  had  any  terrors 
for  me;  but  those  lovely  words  containing  the 
great  truth  :  "  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
within  you",  I  managed  to  interpret  in  my  own 
way.  They  meant  to  me  that  my  home  was 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  I  was  within  it. 
I  was  too  young  to  interpret  those  words  dif 
ferently. 

And  looking  back  over  these  many  years,  I 
find  no  reason  to  change  that  point  of  view 


LOW  TIDES  211 

although  it  has  enlarged  with  the  experience 
of  things  material  and  spiritual.  If  the  home 
where  love  reigns  be  not  the  nearest  thing  to 
heaven,  be  not  heaven  itself  in  one  of  its  many 
manifestations,  then  I  do  not  know  it ;  and  not 
knowing  I  cannot  define  it.  What  satisfaction 
that  little  story  by  Tolstoy  gives  me,  "Where 
Love  is  there  God  is  also." 

2. 

I  experience  a  low  tide  of  feeling  when  I  am 
aware  of  any  marked  tendency,  whatever  its 
expression,  that  makes  for  the  undoing  of  the 
home;  that  makes  for  the  loosening  of  the  ties 
between  father,  mother,  and  children. 

I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  pain,  the  confusion 
of  standards,  the  miserable  inefficiency  of  law  and 
custom  that  tend  to  the  dissolution  of  such  ties. 
I  know  something  of  all  three  —  the  man's, 
the  woman's,  and  the  child's,  for  all  three  have 
told  me.  In  the  end,  it  is  to  the  child  my 
heart  goes  out,  the  child  that  came  into  this 
world  through  no  will  of  its  own,  for  whom  and 
to  whom  father  and  mother  are  responsible. 


212  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

It  is  this  effect  on  the  child  that,  in  the  long 
run,  tells  sociologically ;  for  the  child's  im 
pressions  are  "more  lasting  than  bronze" 

3- 

Childhood's  opportunity  is  the  guaranty  of 
good  citizenship.  Citizenship  in  its  highest 
interpretation  is  the  consciousness  of  power  to 
promote  and  the  will  to  promote  the  welfare  of 
all.  And  the  welfare  of  all,  considered  not  as 
an  abstract  phrase  but  as  a  living  possibility, 
rests  first,  last,  and  always  on  the  welfare  of 
the  child  as  the  unit  of  the  race. 

Just  in  proportion  to  my  tidal  lowness  of 
mind  when  I  am  aware  of  the  tendency  to  dis 
solution  of  family  ties  and  consequent  dep 
rivation  of  the  child  of  its  natural  right,  am 
I  rejoiced,  refreshed  in  spirit  and  strengthened 
in  faith  when  I  see  a  powerful  tendency  apparent 
to  champion  first  and  foremost  the  cause  of 
the  child.  All  child-labor  laws,  —  although  those 
at  present  are  inadequate  and  many  times  a 
misfit,  —  all  attempts  to  win  the  child  from  the 
lure  of  the  streets  at  night,  all  settlement  ex- 


LOW  TIDES  213 

periments  that  include  children,  all  the  wonderful 
work  of  the  Barnardo  Homes,  all  legislation  of 
whatever  kind  that  has  for  the  end  in  view 
the  giving  to  childhood  its  opportunity,  are 
manifestations  of  this  tendency.  It  gives  one 
courage ;  for  behind  any  marked  world-wide 
tendency  there  is  a  living  truth  as  motive  power. 
Whenever  a  home  is  provided  for  a  child, 
there  we  find  this  tendency  working  along  lines 
that  need  be  subject  to  no  deviation,  no  ex 
perimentation,  no  fluctuation  of  basis.  The 
child,  in  such  case,  has  come  into  his  own. 

4- 

I  must  have  been  about  eight  years  old  when 
I  went  with  my  father  and  mother  —  they  not 
caring  to  leave  me  at  home  that  evening  with 
a  new  maid  —  to  a  large  hall  where  were  gathered 
many  hundreds  of  the  best  citizens,  men  and 
women  of  the  city,  to  hear  something  of  child- 
life  in  the  slums  of  New  York  and  its  contribu 
tion  to  humanity. 

I  remember  nothing  of  what  was  said  by  the 
various  speakers  on  the  platform.  I  was  ab- 


214  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

sorbed,  alive,  and  wide  awake,  although  it 
was  long  past  bedtime,  in  watching  the  one, 
to  me,  existing  fact  in  that  hall  :  the  little 
children,  boys  and  girls,  ranged  on  a  low  bench 
behind  the  speakers.  . 

Just  what  these  children  were,  who  they  were, 
whence  they  came,  whither  they  were  bound, 
occupied  all  my  thoughts.  My  father  whispered 
to  me,  when  I  questioned  him,  that  they  were 
orphans.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  were  waifs 
of  the  slums,  children  without  parents,  without 
homes  and  knowing  nothing  of  either,  rescued 
from  their  surroundings  and  awaiting  —  what  ? 

At  the  close  of  the  addresses,  during  which  I 
was  kept  wide  awake  watching  the  children 
two  or  three  of  whom  were  sleepy,  my  young 
eyes  saw  a  marvellous  sight ;  I  know  now  that  it 
was  the  kingdom  of  heaven  a-making  on  this 
earth.  The  gentleman  who  had  the  children 
in  charge  came  forward  to  the  front  of  the 
platform  and  holding  up  a  little  girl  in  his  arms, 
in  a  silence  I  shall  always,  paradoxically,  hear, 
asked  if  there  were  any  in  that  audience  who 
would  take  that  child  for  their  own. 


LOW  TIDES  215 

In  that  silence  which  impressed  me,  which  I 
can  hear  now,  I  looked  up  into  my  father's 
face  and  saw  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheek. 
I  heard  a  sob  from  some  one  behind  us ;  then 
a  man  and  woman  rose  and  came  .down  the 
main  aisle,  the  man  with  arms  outstretched. 
He  took  that  child  to  be  his  and  hers  hence 
forth. 

r  Again  and  again  in  that  profound  silence 
this  little  scene  in  the  great  Life-Drama  was 
enacted  before  my  eyes,  until  all  those  children 
were  provided  with  what  alone  could  nourish 
their  starved  affections  —  a  home. 
{  Remembering  this,  it  happens  now  that  when 
I  know  of  a  man  and  woman  who,  childless, 
take  unto  themselves  as  their  own  one  such  waif, 
realizing  the  effort,  the  labor,  the  watchful  care 
necessitated  for  body  and  soul,  the  many  sacri 
fices  of  time  and  inclination,  sometimes  of  per 
sonal  comfort  entailed,  a  high  tide  of  faith  and 
hope  floods  heart  and  soul  because  I  realize 
I  am  witnessing  now,  as  years  ago,  something 
of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  a-making  on  this 
earth. 


216  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

5- 

But  when  I  see  the  flotsam  of  humanity  left 
stranded,  broken,  fainting,  despairing  on  the 
bared  flats  of  life,  I  feel  in  my  heart  the  ebb  of 
hope,  joy,  enthusiasm  —  sometimes  even  of 
faith. 

I  was  once  in  the  presence  of  seven  hundred 
criminals  in  the  State  Prison  at  Charlestown  — 
bolted  in  with  them  and  their  custodians  in  the 
assembly  hall  for  an  hour  of  " Thanksgiving" 
services.  Perhaps  I  need  not  add  that  to  me 
that  hour  seemed  a  travesty  on  "thanksgiving" 
of  any  kind. 

The  purlieus  of  Edinburgh  and  Leith  are  not 
unknown  to  me  —  worse  than  what  White- 
chapel  used  to  be,  so  a  Londoner  who  knew  both 
assured  me.  I  went  out  in  search  of  the  histori 
cal-picturesque,  and  found  —  the  Unbelievable. 

On  our  second  visit  to  Edinburgh  we  took 
lodgings.  Our  landlady  was  a  widow.  A  few 
weeks  before  our  arrival  she  had  lost  through 
burglary  a  fine  old  watch  which  was  her  hus 
band's.  It  had  been  traced  to  a  pawnbroker's 


LOW  TIDES  217 

shop  in  Leith.  She  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to 
go  with  her  to  see  that  seaport.  She  was  a 
most  interesting  woman  and  worked  among  the 
wretched  and  outcast  in  the  closes  and  wynds 
of  the  Cowgate  and  High  Street.  I  knew  I 
should  have  a  pleasant  and  instructive  hour  or 
two  in  her  company,  and  was  glad  to  accept 
the  invitation.  I  was  young,  about  twenty- 
three,  and  the  tide  of  joy  and  hope  and  enthu 
siasm  was  at  its  height. 

I  remember  we  found  ourselves  in  Leith  Walk 
—  a  seaport  slum.  She  led  the  way  into  a 
narrow  close ;  from  there  into  a  dark,  small 
wynd  into  which  it  seemed  the  sun  could 
never  penetrate  except  in  mid-summer.  We 
climbed  a  dark,  narrow,  winding,  stone  stair 
to  a  small  pawnshop ;  the  dimensions  must 
have  been  something  like  six  feet  by  eight  ex 
clusive  of  the  counter.  I  have  seen  the  Ghetto 
in  Frankfurt  and  its  accumulations  of  ap 
parent  generations  of  dirt,  refuse,  and  cast- 
off  clothing;  but  that  was  cleanly,  fresh-aired 
in  comparison  with  this  stifling  den. 

As  I  stood  by  the  counter  waiting  for  my  land- 


218  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

lady  to  redeem  the  watch,  a  woman  came  in 
from  the  stairway  and  stood  beside  me.  I 
suppose  it  was  a  woman.  She  had  on  a  soiled 
chemise  and  a  ragged  skirt  and  about  her  naked 
shoulders  an  old  shawl.  Dissipation  of  all  kinds 
had  rendered  her  features  almost  unrecognizable 
as  a  woman's  —  coarsened,  inflamed,  discolored 
them.  She  might  have  been  thirty-five.  Then 
and  there,  as  she  stood  close  beside  me,  she 
pawned  to  an  attendant,  who  made  his  appear 
ance  from  behind  an  old  faded  curtain  strung 
behind  the  counter,  the  chemise  from  off  her 
back  —  and  for  a  mere  pittance. 

The  horror  of  that  transaction,  opening  my 
eyes  to  bottomless  depths  of  degradation  of 
the  human,  produced  for  a  time  an  ebb  tide  of 
all  hope  and  faith. 

But  now  I  know  that  that  which  stood  beside 
me  that  August  morning  in  the  stifling  pawnshop 
in  the  Leith  wynd  was  but  the  broken  machine, 
a  wreck  of  the  human  that  should  be  the  ex 
pression  of  the  divine.  I  have  come  into  the 
knowledge  that  the  soul  of  that  woman  was  some 
thing  apart  from  that  wretched  body  —  that 


LOW  TIDES  219 

in  touching  her,  as  I  stood  beside  her  at  that 
counter,  I  no  more  touched  her  soul  than  the 
utter  abandonment  of  that  body  to  debauch 
had  touched  it.  This  faith  sustains  me  now. 
I  have  had  many  such  unexpected  object 
lessons,  and  I  have  learned  them  all  the  more 
thoroughly  because  I  have  been  unprepared 
for  what  I  was  to  learn.  There  was  never  a 
preparatory  "slumming"  in  my  life  as  an  ave 
nue  of  approach  to  any  work  of  philanthropy. 
I  have  come  upon  facts  that  showed  themselves 
to  me  stark  naked  —  with  not  so  much  as  a 
wisp  of  philanthropy,  of  sociology,  of  civic 
work,  to  hide  their  nakedness  in  my  conception 
of  them. 

6. 

In  Chicago  during  the  winter  of  1893-1894, 
I  saw  hundreds  of  men  lined  up  in  deep  snow  and 
biting  wind  each  waiting  his  turn  for  the  work 
that  should  keep  him  and  his  alive. 

From  personal  knowledge  I  know  what  a 
great  work  was  accomplished  that  winter  in 
just  keeping  human  beings  from  freezing,  from 
starvation.  Through  a  Captain  of  the  Salva- 


220  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

tion  Army  I  kept  in  touch  with  a  corner  of 
"Hell's  Acre".  Those  who  knew  Chicago  at 
that  time  will  recognize  the  place  as  a  portion 
of  Polk  Street.  In  a  small  room  in  that  vicinity 
men,  irrespective  of  criminal  record,  were  fed  — 
seventeen  of  them  at  a  time  —  but,  alas,  not 
often  enough  ! 

In  that  same  winter,  an  acquaintance  and  I 
were  coming  homewards  down  the  Lake  Shore 
Drive  from  a  reception  at  a  mansion  facing  the 
lake.  It  was  about  six.  The  heavy  wind  was  off 
shore  and  the  ice-floes  in  the  lake  advanced  grind 
ing  against  the  sea-wall  only  to  recede  after  each 
advance  a  little  farther  from  it.  The  snow  was 
drifted  two  feet  deep  against  the  coping. 

Apparently  we  were  the  only  ones  on  the 
Drive.  We  were  hurrying  on,  our  faces  pressed 
into  our  muffs  on  account  of  the  biting  wind, 
when  suddenly  there  came  from  over  that 
waste  of  ice-floe  and  water  a  faint,  strange  cry. 
We  stopped ;  listened.  That  same  cry  was 
repeated,  but  louder,  nearer:  "Help  —  help!" 
That  in  its  hoarseness  it  was  scarcely  humanly 
articulate  need  not  be  emphasized. 


LOW  TIDES  221 

We  ran  across  to  the  coping;  leaned  to  look 
out  on  the  heaving  waters  held  down  by  the 
ice-floes.  We  could  see  the  head  of  a  man  in 
the  lake  perhaps  thirty  feet  from  the  coping. 
His  hands  were  clinging  to  a  small  floe. 

'"I'll  run  back  to  the  house  for  help,"  said 
my  companion.  I  remained  to  try  to  "keep  up 
his  courage". 

Easily  said,  but  with  what  ?  I  tried  my 
puny  strength  on  one  of  the  park  seats ;  it 
was  riveted.  There  was  nothing  in  sight  of 
any  avail.  I  bethought  me  of  the  long  trailing 
skirt  of  my  reception  gown.  It  was  off  and 
over  the  coping  before  the  thought  had  wholly 
formulated  itself.  In  that  eighteen  feet  depth 
of  coping  and  wall  every  stone  was  laid  so 
perfectly  that  on  all  that  surface  not  a  crack 
was  left  wherein  a  man  might  insert  his  finger 
nails.  That  thought  sickened  me.  In  that 
intensified  moment  of  living  I  saw  every 
detail  connected  with  the  surroundings.  There 
was  nothing  ponderable  by  which  I  might  en 
courage. 

In  the  powerful  rays  of  the  nearby  arc-light, 


222  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

I  knew  the  long  trailing  skirt  could  be  seen  by 
that  man.  "Hold  on,"  I  cried,  "hold  on, 
help  is  coming."  Whether  it  would  get  there  in 
time  to  save  I  could  not  know,  but  still  I  cried, 
"Hold  on!" 

How  many  times  I  encouraged  against  all 
hope  I  do  not  know,  for  in  a  moment,  some 
men  —  thirteen  of  them  —  came  running  with 
rope  and  stepladder  from  the  laundry ;  they  were 
bareheaded,  in  their  dress  suits  —  straight  from 
the  reception,  to  which  my  companion  had 
gone  for  help,  to  the  rescue. 

It  was  quick,  hard  work  —  a  rope,  the  step- 
ladder  at  the  end,  and  both  lowered  over  the 
coping  with  a  man  on  the  lower  step  and  another 
on  the  upper,  a  crunch  of  ice  —  a  hand  over 
hand  —  a  pulling  all  together  and  the  man,  be 
numbed,  exhausted,  half  frozen,  was  saved. 

He  was  a  carpenter;  a  Swede.  Want  of 
work;  a  three  months'  fruitless  search;  three 
mouths  to  feed  and  nothing  with  which  to  feed 
them ;  then  despair  —  and  the  lake. 

That  he  was  deserting  he  knew  when  he  flung 
himself  over  the  coping,  and  he  cried  out  in 


LOW  TIDES  223 

hope  to  be  saved  and  make  good,  somehow, 
to  the  children  he  had  left.  He  was  given  work. 

Since  then,  when  men  and  women,  sitting  in 
their  comfortable  homes,  evolve  sporadic  econom 
ical  theories  and  attempt  to  promulgate  them, 
when  the  periodical  philanthropic  frenzies  are 
in  evidence  —  they  seem  to  me  so  empty,  so 
ineffective  over  against  the  living  fact :  — 

The  man  wanted  work ;  was  willing  to  work ; 
anxious  for  work  —  and  he  could  obtain 
none. 

Our  present  system  of  economics  finds  itself 
in  an  impasse  when  confronted  with  this  fact. 
When  I  think  of  this  I  experience  a  dead  low 
politico-economic  tide. 

I  have  wished  many  times  that  the  contrast 
that  night  had  not  been  quite  so  great,  so  sharp, 
that  it  had  not  been  bitten  into  my  memory  as 
with  an  acid.  For  since  then,  it  has  happened 
that  at  a  reception,  in  the  midst  of  the  glitter, 
the  gayety,  the  frothy  nothings,  the  frou-frou 
of  rich  robes,  the  empty  laughter,  the  passing 
complaisance  of  men  and  women,  I  have  heard 
an  echo  of  that  night  and,  hearing  it,  I  have 


224  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

gone  out  quietly  and  very  early  —  and  no  one 
has  been  the  wiser  for  my  going. 

7- 

I  read  recently  Alfred  Noyes'  "The  Wine 
press" —  an  epic  of  War,  the  monster,  a  cross 
of  the  eight-armed  octopus  of  Greed  and  hydra- 
headed  Lust,  enlived  and  engorged  by  human 
blood. 

The  world  shrank  and  shrivelled  as  I  read. 
It  seemed  but  a  day's  journey  to  that  battle 
field,  for  a  monster  arm  of  that  war-octopus 
had  extended,  relentlessly  indrawing,  across 
a  continent,  across  an  ocean,  and  grasped  a 
human  life  on  this  peaceful  island  four  thousand 
miles  distant. 

There  is  a  small  fruit  shop  on  the  main  street 
kept  by  Greeks.  I  have  traded  there  and  al 
ways  with  the  one  I  called  the  "little  Greek". 
It  fed  a  certain  vein  of  historical  romance  in 
me  to  buy  my  figs,  dates,  and  various  fruits 
from  one  who  had  trodden  that  soil  which  has 
yielded  such  rich  satisfaction  of  enjoyment  to 
mankind  for  the  past  twenty-five  hundred  years, 


LOW  TIDES  225 

from  Homer  and  Sophocles,  Phidias  and  Praxit 
eles  to  the  small  Corinthian  grapes  with  which, 
as  currants,  to  this  day  I  may  enrich  my  pound 
cake. 

The  "little  Greek"  was  requisitioned;  he 
went  home  to  fight  as  commanded.  After  the 
first  war  there  was  news  of  him  and  the  expecta 
tion  of  an  early  return  to  his  island  home. 
With  the  second  war  of  the  former  allies  there 
was  silence.  .  .  . 

There  is  still  silence. 

Now  there  is  ebb  tide  in  my  heart  at  the 
thought,  and  Alfred  Noyes'  "Winepress"  is 
very  real  to  me ;  for  I  hear  some  of  its  drippings 
when  I  enter  the  fruit  shop  and  no  longer  find 
the  "little  Greek"  of  whom  I  may  purchase 
the  baskets  of  grapes  exposed  for  sale. 

8. 

Fortunately  my  low  tides  are  not  regulated 
wholly  by  any  system  of  political  economy.  I 
have  various  lesser  tides  that  are  disheartening 
at  times.  The  high  cost  of  living,  for  instance. 
I  went  out  a  year  ago  last  autumn  with  one 


226  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

dollar  in  my  purse.  I  bought  with  those 
hundred  cents  one  pound  of  butter,  one  dozen 
eggs,  and  two  apples.  This  year  for  the  same 
sum  I  should  be  minus  the  apples  ! 

Then  there  is  a  real  neap  tide  when  I  look  at 
women  in  their  present  dress.  It  is  fortunate 
for  us  all,  I  suppose,  that  we  never  can  see 
ourselves  with  our  own  eyes.  Why  do  women 
wish  to  make  themselves  look  positively  ugly  ? 
In  the  pictures  of  another  generation  when 
hoops  prevailed,  there  is  to  be  seen  an  orderly 
doing  up  of  the  hair  at  least ;  a  decent  appre 
ciation  of  the  fact  that  a  woman  has  a  waist  in 
a  good  location,  and  a  pretty  foot  well  shod  at  a 
proper  distance  beneath  those  voluminous  petti 
coats.  But  now ! 

9- 

I  was  thinking  the  other  day  how  truly  con 
sistent  we  are  as  a  nation  in  this  matter  of 
dress.  I  had  taken  out  a  coin —  rare  with  me  — 
a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece,  and  was  examining 
the  die  after  a  design  of  Saint-Gaudens. 

"And  is  this  my  country's  symbol  ?"  I  said 
to  myself :  "  is  this  menad  with  all  the  appear- 


LOW  TIDES  227 

ance  of  split,  diaphanous  skirt,  high  waist, 
floppy  blouse  effect  and  wild  streaming  hair 
the  symbol  of  'liberty'  and  seal  of  approval 
to  our  present  female  apparel  ? "  For,  in  truth, 
we  seem  to  copy  this  costume  and  woman  of 
Saint-Gaudens  designing  very  closely  —  alack  ! 

Compare  this  with  the  "Wingless  Victory  "  of 
the  Greeks.  Compare  it  with  an  exquisite 
head  of  Demeter,  a  plaster  cast  of  which  I 
possess ;  it  was  made  from  one  of  the  few  mar 
vellous  cuttings  of  gems  —  in  intaglio  —  in  the 
Berlin  Museum.  Why  can  we  not  have  as  fine 
for  our  own  mintage  ? 

Taking  out  another  coin,  I  made  a  close 
examination  of  that ;  it  induced  one  of  my 
periodical  low  art-tides. 

It  is  a  ten-dollar  gold  piece  recently  minted. 
I  find  on  it  the  Indian's  head  with  war  bonnet. 
Across  the  band  of  the  bonnet  over  the  forehead 
is  the  word  " Liberty"  in  relief. 

Liberty  ?  How  much  liberty  have  the  Indians 
as  a  race  received  from  us  as  a  nation  ?  How 
much  liberty  have  they  had  to  pursue  their 
own  ways  of  life  since  the  coming  of  the  white 


228  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

man  ?  Is  it  liberty  to  be  moved,  at  the  will .  of 
a  Power,  from  South  to  North,  from  North  to 
South,  from  East  to  West  ? 

I  have  come  late  to  the  reading  of  a  most 
remarkable  work  :  "The  Indians'  Book",  by 
Miss  Curtis.  It  is  both  an  historical  docu 
ment  and  a  racial  monument.  It  is  in  truth 
the  Indians'  book  —  their  Bible.  In  it  we 
may  read  in  their  own  words  the  story  of  their 
wanderings,  —  we  need  not  look  to  Egypt  for 
an  exodus,  —  their  endurance,  their  attitude 
over  against  their  conquerors,  their  hopes,  their 
songs,  —  the  expression  of  their  ideals,  — their 
conception  of  the  fructifying  forces  of  life  and 
their  intense  religious  life.  It  is  truly  the 
Indians'  "scriptures".  I  even  find  in  their 
self-colored  drawings  the  ancient  "blue  and 
purple  and  scarlet"  of  the  dwellers  in  another 
wilderness. 

Read  this  wonderful  book,  and  when  next 
you  look  at  a  gold  "eagle",  that  comes  into  your 
hands  fresh  from  the  mint,  draw  your  own  con 
clusions  in  regard  to  our  want  of  a  national 
sense  of  proportion  in  art !  Liberty  ?  The 


LOW  TIDES  229 

Indian    has    not    known    it    for   nearly    three 
centuries. 

No,  liberty  is  not  symbolized  by  our  placing 
the  word  on  an  Indian's  war  bonnet.  Neither 
is  liberty  the  license  of  the  menad.  It  is  the 
restraint  of  controlled  intelligence;  and  when 
we  get  controlled  intelligence  working  in  clay, 
marble,  bronze,  in  painting  and  literature,  we 
get  true  art.  Art  to  be  art  must  have  a  basis  of 
truth ;  it  cannot  be  founded  on  a  mockery  of 
truth.  If  it  be  attempted,  the  result  may  be 
artistry,  but  never  art. 

It  would  seem  a  thing  of  slight  importance 
—  this  of  the  symbols  on  our  national  coinage; 
but  looked  at  closely  it  subjects  us  to  criticism. 
The  B  as  tile  on  a  coin  of  the  French  Republic 
would  be  as  appropriate  for  a  symbol  of  liberty, 
as  the  designs  on  our  present  gold  mintage. 

10. 

I  look  at  Rodin's  "The  Thinker",  and  ask 
myself  :  "Is  this  the  plastic  expression  of  my 
generation  ? "  At  Whistler's  charming  color- 
schemes  and  ask  again  :  "Is  this  an  expression 


230  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

in  painting  of  certain  tendencies  of  my  genera 
tion  ?  Where  in  both  are  evidences  of  the  deep 
sea  soundings  ? " 

This  remembrance  of  Rodin  calls  to  mind 
Mr.  Shaw  whose  bust  he  has  made;  and  Mr. 
Shaw  reminds  me  of  Galsworthy,  and  Gals 
worthy  of  Wells,  and  Wells  of  Bennett  —  and 
all  combined  bring  to  remembrance  the  Henry 
James  of  the  later  period,  Nietzsche,  d'Annun- 
zio,  Strindberg,  Post-Impressionist,  Symbolist, 
Futurist,  Cubist  — 

Dear  me  !  I  find  I  am  getting  very  low  in  my 
mind.  It  is  really  dead  low  tide ;  the  ebb  has  laid 
bare  the  rips  and  flats.  But  just  this,  contrary 
to  what  one  might  expect,  gives  me  a  feeling  of 
buoyancy  —  for  I  know  it  will  soon  turn  ! 


XVI 

HIGH    TIDES 
I. 

IT  is  high  tide  as  I  look  from  the  window  by 
which  I  am  writing.  The  flats  are  covered ; 
storm  clouds  are  drifting  over  the  harbor;  the 
air  is  soft;  the  wind  is  from  the  southwest. 
Cows  are  grazing  in  a  marshy  meadow  below 
the  bank.  Some  ducks  are  quacking  with  a 
truly  Hans  Andersen  liveliness.  Now  and  then 
I  hear  the  scream  of  a  gull  —  inland,  I  think, 
for  these  scavengers  prefer  a  half  tide. 

I  feel  something  of  a  scavenger  myself  after 
rescuing  the  flotsam  of  all  those  low  tides  of 
memories. 

2. 

With  a  thankful  heart  I  dare  assert  that, 
temperamentally,  I  am  built  on  what  may  be 
called  high  tide  lines.  This  is  no  boast  of  an 
egoist,  nor  can  it  be  a  matter  of  personal  vain 
glory.  It  is  a  matter  of  inheritance ;  I  was  born 

231 


232  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

so,  and  in  the  making  of  myself  I  was  i  not  a 
factor. 

I  like  all  that  is  fresh,  wholesome,  clean, 
whether  of  mind  or  matter.  I  adore  courage 
whether  moral  or  physical.  I  love  honesty  of 
purpose,  purse,  and  word.  I  hate  meanness ; 
despise  cowardness ;  loathe  underhandedness 
—  which  statement  is  by  no  means  to  be  inter 
preted  that  I  have  not  been  guilty  of  petty 
meannesses,  that  I  am  not  cowardly,  at  times, 
in  the  cause  of  truth. 

3- 

People  say  :   "It  is  a  dull  day." 

Now  it  never  occurs  to  me  that  a  day  in  which 
I  can  breathe,  eat,  work,  enjoy,  —  and  there  is 
always  something  to  enjoy  if  only  the  gray, 
drifting  slant  of  rain  past  the  windows  (the 
Japanese  make  so  much  of  that  in  their  art)  — 
is  "dull".  This  is  a  matter  of  temperament  on 
which  has  been  engrafted  a  habit  of  finding 
pleasure  in  little  things. 

I  find  exactly  as  much  to  enjoy  in  the  great 
market  in  Washington,  for  instance,  as  in  the 


HIGH  TIDES  233 

best  theatre  in  New  York.  David  Warfield's 
"Music  Master"  gives  me  pure  delight  of  a 
certain  kind.  Some  street-sweepers  I  was 
watching  one  day  in  Hanover,  Germany,  sud 
denly  dropping  their  brooms  and  dancing  to 
the  merry  tune  of  a  passing  itinerant  musician 
gave  me  just  as  much  of  another  kind. 

A  luncheon  in  the  Senate  lunch-room  at  the 
Capitol  was  a  delightful  experience  because  I 
broke  bread  with  both  "stand-patters"  and 
progressives  and  there  was  good  masculine  talk> 
well  worth  attention,  on  interesting,  national 
subjects.  None  the  less  interesting  and  enter 
taining  was  a  luncheon  miraculously  provided 
for  an  acquaintance  and  myself  in  a  far  away 
forsaken  village  in  our  North  Country,  on  the 
border  line  between  New  Hampshire  and  Ver 
mont. 

4- 

I  shall  never  forget  that  day  !  We  found  our 
selves  stranded,  so  far  as  train  connections 
were  concerned,  for  six  hours  in  as  forsaken  and 
depressing  a  place  as  ever  has  come  within  my 
travelling  experience. 


234  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

For  once,  I  confess,  things  looked  indeed 
"dull".  It  was  an  intensely  hot,  humid  Sep 
tember  day.  The  clouds  were  low,  threatening 
rain  and  blanketing  an  already  over-heated 
earth.  It  was  a  task  to  draw  a  full  breath. 

To  be  sure  there  was  the  station,  but  it  was 
no  refuge  —  dark,  hot,  uncleanly,  it  was  filled 
with  flies  that  "sensing"  rain  foregathered  by 
thousands  in  the  waiting-room.  There  was 
nothing  up  the  street  but  tracks,  dust,  and  a 
building  called  a  "town  hall"  on  which  was  the 
advertisement  of  a  "show".  These  are  the  two 
hall  marks  of  a  North  Country  village. 

Down  the  street  there  was  a  vulgarly  new, 
staring,  red  brick  block,  and  farther  along  on 
the  other  side  among  grass  and  weeds  was  a 
lunch-wagon.  Once  it  must  have  been  white; 
now  it  was  the  acme  of  dingy,  muddy,  grimy, 
streaked  forlornity.  It  was  labelled  in  huge 
letters  :  White  House  Cafe  ! 

And  seeing  that  we  smiled  for  the  first  time 
since  our  arrival  and  walked  on  an  eighth  of  a 
mile  to  a  toll  bridge.  I  felt  positively  mediaeval 
when  I  paid  one  cent  to  cross  it  and  another  to 


HIGH  TIDES  235 

return  from  a  vista  of  long,  forsaken  road, 
and  a  few  trees  and  bushes  powdered  ash  color 
with  dust.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  we  did  not 
patronize  the  "White  House  Cafe".  We  were 
hungry,  tired,  and  a  bit  depressed  when  we 
returned  to  the  station  and  asked  the  ticket 
agent  if  there  were  a  place  where  we  could 
get  something  to  eat ;  both  of  us  were  too 
cowardly  to  say  "luncheon"  in  that  special 
environment. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said  right  cheerily;  "just 
across  the  road  in  that  block  is  a  cellar.  They 
opened  a  restaurant  there  a  few  days  ago." 

"Is  it  good  ?"  I  asked. 

"Can't  be  beat  in  the  state  of  New  Hamp 
shire,"  he  affirmed  with  such  conviction  that  we 
smiled  for  the  second  time;  "but",  he  added, 
"'t'ain't  open  till  noon." 

We  thanked  him  and  went  out  on  the  railed 
platform  for  air.  As  we  leaned  on  the  railing, 
wondering  just  at  that  moment  what  life  was 
really  for,  we  heard  the  sudden  blare  of  trumpet 
and  beat  of  drum,  and  down  the  street  from 
the  town  hall  came  a  fine-looking  band  of  men 


236  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

gorgeous  in  corded  sombrero,  sheepskin  "chaps", 
red  and  yellow  neckerchiefs  —  the  Texas  Rang 
ers. 

tf  They  made  a  brave  show  !  Our  spirits  rose. 
Halting  in  front  of  the  station  platform  they 
played  one  popular  tune  after  the  other,  fortis 
simo,  agitando,  accelerando  furioso,  —  French 
horns,  trombone,  clarinet,  and  drum,  —  until 
we  thought  some  vein  must  burst.  Their 
cheeks  were  blown  poppy  red,  their  hands  red, 
their  eyes  fixed  and  protruding.  Never,  never 
was  musical  notation  written  for  such  a  pace  ! 
Never  had  such  inspiriting  music  filled  my  ears 
and  my  soul  with  such  peculiar  joy  !  Strauss 
and  his  "Till  Eulenspiegel "  are  mere  by-prod 
ucts,  in  comparison,  for  noise  and  hearty 
resonance. 

How  we  enjoyed  it !  How  we  applauded  ! 
How  we  regretted  that  we  could  not  stay  over 
for  the  "show"  !  How  the  few  children  shouted 
with  delight  and  the  one  old  horse  attached  to  a 
lone  farmer's  wagon  on  the  outside  of  the  ring 
cavorted  and  snorted  to  the  tune  of  the  "Wash 
ington  March"  ! 


HIGH  TIDES  237 

Marine  Band  ?  Senate  lunch-room  and  five 
senatorial  courses  ?  They  never  yielded  quite 
the  enjoyment  of  those  Texas  Rangers,  and  here 
is  my  public  acknowledgment  for  the  pleasure 
they  gave  me. 

At  twelve,  promptly,  we  went  down  the  eight 
steep  steps  into  the  "cellar"  —  and  what  did  we 
find  ?  A  full-fledged  Rathskeller  among  the 
hills  of  our  North  Country !  It  was  clean, 
freshly  painted  in  white  and  pale  olive  green. 
A  white  shelf  around  the  entire  room  was  filled 
with  cheap  steins  of  every  species,  stuffed 
squirrels,  mugs  of  bright  flowers.  On  the  painted 
walls  were  some  fairly  good  pictures  —  one  of 
Venice  and  the  Piazzetta  !  In  addition  there 
were  clean  tables,  clean  lunch-counter,  clean 
dishes,  a  clean,  smiling  waitress  —  pretty  too. 
I  found  on  the  "dinner-card"  egg-sandwiches. 

"The  last  touch  of  a  perfected  civilization," 
I  said  to  myself  as  I  ordered  two,  the  other  pro 
vision  of  hot  pork  and  "fixings"  not  being  to 
my  taste  in  that  temperature. 

When  they  came  I  found  to  my  amazement 
that  the  hill-country  Rathskeller  idea  of  an  egg- 


238  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

sandwich  was  an  egg  fried  hard  in  pork  fat 
and  placed  hot  between  two  huge  slices  of  but 
tered  bread  ! 

The  last  aesthetic  touch  to  our  pleasant  sur 
roundings  was  given  by  the  entrance  of  the 
Texas  Rangers  who,  divested  of  all  their  para 
phernalia,  in  becoming  street  dress,  brown  from 
exposure  to  sun  and  wind,  healthy  with  fresh 
air,  dark  eyed,  dark  haired,  and  well  mannered, 
filled  the  three  remaining  vacant  tables  in  this 
foreign  graft  of  a  Rathskeller. 

This  experience  is  one  of  my  high  tides  on  the 
border  of  a  state  that  has  no  coast  line. 

S- 

And  then  there  are  such  spring  tides  of  ap 
preciative  recognition  !  All  of  us  must  at  some 
time  experience  them  :  recognition  of  what  is 
best  in  painting,  sculpture,  literature,  and,  in 
consequence,  rejoicing  that  some  of  the  most 
wonderful  thought  of  this  great,  perplexing 
humanity  of  ours  may  find  its  ablest  interpreta 
tion  through  genius. 

Going  over   in   my  mind  the  other  day  the 


HIGH  TIDES  239 

examples  of  plastic  art  that  have  most  influenced 
me,  I  was  surprised  to  find  how  few  they  are. 
Our  own  country  has  two  masterpieces  through 
one  of  its  sons,  born  an  alien,  and  both  belong  to 
the  world  that  genius  enriches. 

6. 

Time  and  again  when  I  was  living  in  Chicago, 
I  walked  to  the  entrance  of  Lincoln  Park  and 
stood  before  that  marvellous  statue  of  Abraham 
Lincoln  —  so  strong,  tender,  hopeful,  brave. 
There  is  a  prayer  on  those  firm  lips.  He  is 
looking  toward  the  South  and  in  his  eyes  there 
is  the  keen  appreciation  of  the  seer  who  reads 
the  years  and  bids  mankind  further  dare  and  do  ! 

Surely  Saint-Gaudens  fixed  here  in  bronze 
for  the  enlightenment  of  future  generations  the 
meaning  of  "The  hour  —  the  man",  as  no  one 
else  has  ever  done. 

Perhaps  his  Adams  statue  in  Rock  Creek 
Cemetery,  in  Washington,  may  be  said  to  be 
one  of  the  very  few  masterpieces  in  sculpture 
that  the  world  has  produced  for  the  last  three 
hundred  years.  It  belongs  to  the  world,  for  it 


240  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

embodies  the  deepest  emotion,  and  the  greatest 
unanswered  thought  of  the  human  race  :  the 
grief  of  loss  over  against  the  want  of  the  absolute 
assurance  of  immortality. 

On  a  wonderful  April  day  a  few  years  ago, 
I  entered  the  natural,  arbor-like  enclosure 
formed  by  magnolias  and  one  ancient,  over 
shadowing,  southern  pine,  and  sitting  down 
opposite  this  statue  lived  with  it  for  half  an  hour. 

The  natural  setting  is  perfect.  A  quiet 
prevailed  that  reminded  me  of  Saint  John's 
expression:  "There  was  silence  in  heaven  for 
about  the  space  of  half  an  hour."  The  sun 
light  falling  through  the  interstices  of  the  foliage 
brought  out  the  exquisite  ivory  disks  of  the 
magnolia  blooms  and  played  about  the  head 
of  the  statue.  The  breeze  stirring  the  branches 
of  the  pine  shifted  the  shadows  in  its  mantle. 

The  Form  sits  alone  with  Grief.  It  is  mantled 
from  head  to  foot  with  despair;  the  shoul 
ders  are  slack,  sorrow-weighted.  Beneath  the 
swollen,  drooping  lids  the  tears  have  furrowed 
deep  their  dry-run  courses.  The  lips  are  com 
pressed,  for  theirs  is  silent  speech. 


HIGH  TIDES  241 

There  has  been  nothing  like  this  since  Michael 
Angelo. 

7- 

In  the  Duomo  of  Florence  there  is  an  absence 
of  ornamentation  which  is  refreshing  to  eyes 
that  throughout  Italy  and  France  have  been 
accustomed  to  overelaboration  of  detail.  I 
used  to  go  in  there  frequently  of  a  morning  when 
on  my  way  to  the  Mercato  Vecchio  which  I 
fairly  haunted  during  the  winter  we  lived  in  the 
city  of  Saint  Mary  of  the  Flowers. 

As  one  enters  from  the  brilliant  sunshine, 
the  eye  has  to  accustom  itself  to  the  darkness ; 
then  follows  the  relief  of  the  wide-spaced,  unen 
cumbered  nave.  Walking  farther  on  towards 
the  apse  one  comes  suddenly  —  or  did  then,  I 
do  not  know  if  it  be  there  now  —  on  a  marvel 
lous  group,  an  unfinished  Pieta  by  Michael 
Angelo  —  and,  seeing  that,  one  sees  little  else 
in  the  cathedral  even  if  one  visit  it  frequently. 

The  mother  leans  over  her  son  who  lies 
partly  across  her  knees.  In  that  face  we  see 
the  soul  of  a  mother  in  anguish.  The  anguish 
is  human,  the  Son  is  human,  the  mother  is 


242  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

human  —  and   the   work   makes   its   appeal   to 
humans. 

To  this  group  I  owe  much  enlightenment 
as  to  the  "soul  of  mothers". 

8. 

There  are  two  other  mothers  in  art  with  whom 
I  associate  this  unfinished  work  of  Michael 
Angelo's  ;  we  bridge  three  centuries  to  find  them. 

One  may  be  seen  in  that  group  by  Constantin 
Meunier,  "Le  Grisou"  (Firedamp),  in  Brussels. 
Here,  also,  the  mother  is  leaning  above  her  son, 
the  dead  miner.  It  is  a  plastic  expression  of  the 
almost  daily  tragedy  that  goes  on  "under  the 
crust"  in  this  age  of  a  monster  Industrialism. 

Looking  into  that  mother's  face  I  feel  her 
grief  to  be  a  factor  of  the  elemental  human. 
So  have  other  mothers  looked  since  maternity 
knew  itself  for  motherhood  —  felt,  sorrowed 
over  the  man  child  born  to  a  short  toiling  struggle 
and  early  death.  She  is  the  plastic  embodiment 
of  motherhood  bereft  of  hope  of  immortality 
through  offspring.  uShe  expresses  all  the  com 
passion  of  one  who  has  borne  and  suffered,  and 


HIGH  TIDES  243 

who  watches,  with  no  word  left,  the  wrecking 
of  a  life  and  the  nothingness  of  hope  and  youth." 

Here  also  I  find  a  certain  speech  of  silence  to 
be  interpreted  by  a  future  generation. 

The  other  is  a  myth-mother.  In  the  Athe 
naeum  in  Helsingfors  hangs  a  painting  by  Axel 
Gallen  —  "  Lemminkainen's  Mother  "  —  from 
the  Finnish  epic  of  the  Kalevala. 

I  have  seen  only  the  photographic  reproduc 
tion  ;  even  in  that  its  emotional  appeal  is  almost 
overpowering.  She,  too,  sits  beside  the  dead 
body  of  her  son,  resting  a  hand  on  the  lifeless 
form.  Her  face  is  raised  in  anguished  protest 
against  such  intensity  of  suffering,  yet  it  is 
patient  with  the  knowledge  that  she  must  bear 
the  Inevitable.  That  face  is  old,  lined,  worn, 
the  corners  of  the  mouth  are  drooping  and 
slightly  drawn.  The  appeal  in  those  old,  dry 
eyes  is  more  heart-rending  than  the  reddened, 
tear-swollen  lids  of  youth,  for  her  heart  knows 
the  flinty  ways  of  life  and  her  sad  eyes  may  not 
blink  the  glaring  fact  that  death  pays  no  heed  to 
the  order  of  primogeniture. 

These  two  sculptured  forms  and  faces,  and 


244  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

the  one  painting  by  Axel  Gallen,  permit  us  to  see 
deeply  into  the  mother-soul  when  the  light  of 
that  soul  is  eclipsed  by  the  death  of  what  is 
very  bone  of  her  bone  and  flesh  of  her  flesh  and, 
ofttimes,  spirit  of  her  spirit.  I  have  felt  the  in 
fluence  of  all  three. 

9- 

There  must  be  a  drop  of  pagan  blood  in  my 
veins  for,  apart  from  these  four  great  sculp 
tures  that  have  influenced  and  continue  to 
influence  me,  I  am  most  indebted  for  an  under 
standing  of  how  plastic  art  may  interpret  life 
to  the  wonderful  sculptures  from  the  altar  of 
Pergamos.  They  are  in  Berlin. 

Through  them  I  understand  something  of 
the  beginning  of  things  on  this  earth :  the 
titanic  warring  of  ideals  and  elemental  earth 
forces.  These  great  forms,  —  sometimes  the 
relief  is  ten  inches  in  depth,  —  embody  in  my 
thought  of  them  the  present  struggle  of  men, 
the  half-gods,  for  the  mastery  of  natural 
forces  ;  for  the  conquering  of  the  air,  the  sea,  the 
earth,  the  deadly  bacillus  —  their  attempt  to 
overcome  even  death. 


HIGH  TIDES  245 

One  of  Rodin's  nudes  beside  any  one  of  these 
living,  struggling,  wrestling,  sculptured  forms 
would  show  the  inadequacy  of  his  attempt  to 
voice  our  generation.  His  "Thinker",  for  in 
stance,  placed  beside  a  warring  Titan  would 
show  merely  as  a  poseur;  whereas  Meunier's 
"Puddler"  belongs  in  their  midst,  is  one  of 
them ;  is  something  of  each  faction  —  god  and 
earth-born  —  as  are  the  men  who  "overcome" 
in  mine  or  quarry,  in  the  earth,  on  the  sea,  in 
the  air. 

What  Rodin  desires  to  express  in  the 
"Thinker"  is,  doubtless,  the  awakening  of 
thought  in  Mankind  concerning  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  existence  on  this  earth  that  must 
be  tilled  and  worked  by  man  to  produce  him  and 
sustain  him.  But  the  "Puddler"  of  Meunier 
thinks  as  he  pants  heavily  with  open  mouth, 
resting  from  the  horrible  strain  of  his  toil. 
Rodin's  man  seems  to  say,  "I  am,  therefore  I 
think";  Meunier's,  "I  work,  therein  I  show 
myself  a  thinking  man."  In  the  latter's 
masterpieces  we  may  test  the  worth  of  the  Age 
of  Industrialism. 


246  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

IO. 

And  what  high  tides  of  rejoicing  in  heart  and 
mind  and  soul  when  I  enumerate  all  the  good 
that  has  been  bestowed  on  the  millions  of  our 
race,  including  my  own  small  millionth,  through 
John  Bunyan,  Israels,  Hauptmann,  Lessing, 
Goethe,  Shakespeare,  Carlyle,  and  Ruskin, 
Burne- Jones,  Meunier,  Balzac,  Dickens,  —  yes, 
and  Rudyard  Kipling  and  Finley  Peter  Dunne 
(our  inimitable  philosopher,  Mr.  Dooley)  and 
Phillips  Brooks  and  Jane  Addams  and  Dr. 
Barnardo  and  the  men  of  science  —  but  I  need 
another  book  to  enumerate  all  of  those  who  have 
blessed,  are  blessing,  and  will  continue  to  bless 
us  and  future  generations.  The  good  works 
"  through  all,  in  all,  onward  through  all ". 

II. 

But  there  are  two  flood  tides  which,  thank 
God,  never  ebb  :  the  tide  of  love  and  the  tide  of 
friendship.  I  mean  true  love  and  true  friend 
ship.  They  cannot  ebb  by  their  very  nature, 
for  they  are  of  the  essence  of  divinity  and  the 
primal  source  is  always  filling  to  the  divine  level. 


HIGH  TIDES  247 

If  we  may  count  our  true  friends  on  the  two 
fingers  of  our  right  hand  —  yes,  on  one  —  we 
may  dare  to  say  we  have  known  God.  If  once 
during  a  lifetime,  whether  long  or  short,  we 
may  assert  that  we  have  known  the  meaning 
of  true  love,  we  may  consider  ourselves  of  the 
Immortals. 

12. 

JANUARY  26,  1914. 

It  is  sunset  as  I  write.  The  tide  is  on  the 
flood.  Across  the  deep-blue  harbor  waters, 
roughened  in  the  wind,  the  shores  and  moors 
of  Monomoy,  Shimmo,  Pocamo  curve  to 
Wauwinet  and  the  "haulover"  —  a  crescent  of 
amethyst.  I  have  seen  this  light  at  sunset  on 
the  hills  of  Fiesole  near  Florence,  but  in  no 
other  place  until  I  found  it  here.  The  sky 
above  is  pale  rose ;  a  line  of  clear,  blue-green 
separates  it  from  the  amethystine  moors.  In 
the  foreground  the  little  creeks  in  the  marshy 
brown  meadow  gleam  faintly  blue.  A  reach  of 
quiet  water  in  the  lee  of  the  old  wharf  is  touched 
with  deep  rose. 

The  shadows  are  falling  on  the  black  roofs, 


248  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

the  great,  gray  chimneys,  the  weather-worn 
fishermen's  huts  on  the  shore.  The  rose  above 
is  deepening,  the  blue  beneath  darkening.  The 
waters  are  alive  and  the  wind  is  freshening. 

I  like  this  high  tide ;  but  I  am  thankful  just 
for  to-night  that  the  dusk  is  falling  and  I  may 
not  see  its  ebb. 


XVII 

SEARCHLIGHTS 
I. 

MY  grandmother  used  to  say :  "  I  was  born  a 
hundred  years  too  soon." 

That  was  her  one  great  regret,  so  eager  was 
her  desire  to  know  more  of  her  country's  mar 
vellous  development,  and  the  progress  in  inven 
tion  that  had  its  inception  in  her  day.  I  wonder 
if  the  regret  would  be  so  keen  if  she  were  living 
in  this  century  ?  I  doubt  it ;  yet,  at  times,  I 
find  myself  wishing  I  might  be  permitted  to 
turn  a  powerful  twentieth  century  searchlight 
on  the  conditions  of  our  race  a  hundred  years 
from  now.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  "pick 
up"  at  least  the  buoys. 

2. 

Here  in  our  own  waters  the  searchlight  is 
used  for  excessively  dark  nights  and  in  fog. 

249 


250  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

At  times  the  fog  is  so  thick  !  Impenetrable 
to  sight,  baffling  as  to  course,  confusing  as  to 
sound,  disheartening  to  all  —  and  the  search 
light  is  practically  useless. 

3- 

The  Age  has  not  been  quite  fair  with  my 
generation;  we  have  been  experimented  with 
and  upon  like  no  other  since  recorded  history. 
That  we  have  stood  the  pressure  as  we  have 
makes  for  faith  in  our  vitality  as  a  race  and 
warrants  the  assumption  that  spiritually  we 
are  "something  more  than  we  seem".  The 
experiments  are  of  such  a  varied  nature  and 
along  so  many  lines  !  They  have  come  so  thick 
and  fast,  like  a  sudden  fog  settling  upon  sea 
and  land  and  blotting  out  direction,  beacons, 
signposts,  refuge,  at  one  and  the  same  time. 
One  becomes  confused,  dazed  in  such  an  environ 
ment  where  sight  and  hearing  are  indeterminate. 

I  permit  myself  to  use  the  first  person,  for 
personal  experience  is  apt  to  be  more  convincing 
and  interesting  than  the  statistical  experi 
mentation  of  a  generation. 


SEARCHLIGHTS  251 

I  have  been  classed  with  rabbits,  guinea  pigs, 
and  monkeys.  They  have  been  experimented 
on  for  my  sake  that  every  deadly  bacillus  might 
be  examined,  every  germ  defined,  every  serum 
produced  that  can  be  marshalled  to  fight  death 
on  the  one  hand  by  producing  germicide  on  the 
other.  I  am  labelled  scientifically  like  a  tube 
of  culture  germs.  I  am  classed  with  peas  and 
beans  and  am  subject  to  the  Mendelian  laws 
of  heredity  because  they  are  subject  to  that  law. 
I  am  said  to  be  a  descendant  of  simian  ancestry 
because  Darwin  has  lived  to  use  that  wonderful 
brain  for  the  benefit  and  enlightenment  of  the 
race. 

No  longer  may  I  have  any  Bible,  as  I  have 
always  understood  that  word,  because  that 
book  has  been  criticized,  re-written,  put  under 
the  exhaust  air-pump  glass  of  science,  and 
declared  to  be  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  I  may 
have  no  God  because  certain  men,  measuring 
the  universe  with  their  tape-measure  of  wisdom 
and  investigation,  decide  that  I  have  worshipped 
merely  an  ideal.  Mr.  William  James  tried  to 
substitute  "pragmatism"  and  failed.  He  led 


252  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

men  and  women  to  the  crossroads  and  said, 
"This  way",  —  but  could  not  say  "to  what". 
Love  is  a  matter  of  electricity;  life  enlived 
matter.  The  bounds  of  the  universe  are  known. 
Haeckel  conjugates  matter  throughout  the  entire 
universe  and  nothing  but  matter  :  I  am  matter, 
thou  art  matter,  he,  she,  or  it  is  matter.  To 
conjugate  otherwise  is  another  delusion  and 
snare. 

Submarines  make  acquaintance  with  the  fast- 
diminishing  whale  and  like  that  mammal  come 
up  to  the  surface  to  breathe.  Aeroplanes  defy 
all  known  laws  of  aerostatics  and  prove  that 
there  is  no  other  element  to  conquer.  Machines 
are  made  so  delicately  adjusted  that  they  can 
pick  up  a  needle  or  remove  a  block  of  granite. 
The  North  and  South  Poles  are  labelled  — 
United  States  and  Norway ;  soon  we  shall  be 
able  to  whisper  by  wireless  telephony  from  one 
to  the  other ;  there  is  nothing  left  to  discover. 

The  result  of  all  this  sudden  precipitation  of 
ideas,  inventions,  discovery,  is  that  my  genera 
tion  and  I  have  found  ourselves,  at  times,  in 
what  an  old  lighthouse  keeper  I  knew  on  an 


SEARCHLIGHTS  253 

island  off  the  Maine  coast  used  to  say  was  "a 
teetotal  dungeon  fog". 

4- 

There  are  three  things  you  can  do  in  a  fog. 
If  you  are  on  a  river  and  the  laws  of  the  land 
are  practical,  you  will  have  to  drop  anchor  till 
it  lifts.  This  action  saves  both  yourself  and 
others. 

If  you  are  on  the  high  seas  and  there  are  no 
laws  to  command  and  guide  you,  either  you  can 
take  the  risk  of  going  ahead  at  full  steam  to 
make  a  record  run,  or  you  can  slow  down,  take 
soundings,  and  wait  for  it  to  lift. 

In  the  third  place  you  can  wander  around,  if 
you  happen  to  be  in  London,  see  men,  lamp 
posts,  cabs,  and  drays  "as  trees  walking",  or 
not  at  all ;  and  if  you  are  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
the  Nelson  Column  in  Trafalgar  Square,  you 
can  sit  down  by  the  lions  and  wait,  chilled  and 
disheartened,  until  the  fog  disperses. 

All  these  methods  of  comporting  oneself  in  a 
fog  are  mere  attempts  for  the  time  at  com 
promise  with  life.  Meanwhile,  it  is  not  a  matter 


254  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

for  wonderment  that  so  many  are  bewildered, 
lost. 

5. 

There  is  one  fact  about  fog,  the  densest, 
blackest,  most  bewildering,  most  baffling  that 
can  form  :  it  always  lifts;  certain  natural  laws 
preclude  the  possibility  of  its  continuance. 

6. 

I  see  signs  that  the  fog  which  has  bewildered 
and  baffled  my  generation  and  the  present  one, 
which  has  obscured  the  spiritual  vision  and 
confused  the  listening  spirit  of  man,  is  lifting. 
I  look  forward  confidently  to  the  time  when  it 
shall  be  lifted  wholly  in  order  that  men  and 
women  shall  see  clearly  their  surroundings ; 
that  they  shall  think  clearly  with  unbefogged 
brains ;  that  they  shall  work  in  hope,  shall  live 
in  faith. 

Meanwhile  —  ah,  meanwhile  !  —  so  many  are 
lost. 

7. 

There  are  various  fogs  that  tend  to  obscure, 
to  bewilder.  We  on  this  island,  for  instance, 


SEARCHLIGHTS  255 

may  see  from  our  windows  the  sudden  precipi 
tation  of  the  snow  fog  that  adds  cold  to  the  ele 
ment  of  great  danger. 

We  have  the  thin,  vaporous,  layer-fog  which, 
allowing  the  sight  to  penetrate  a  little  way  in 
various  directions,  shuts  off  all  view  of  the  sky. 
We  know  the  sun  is  there  above,  shining; 
but  we  may  not  see  it,  strain  our  eyes  as  we  will ; 
nor  at  night  can  we  see  one  star  by  which  the 
mariner  may  steer. 

The  so-called  "black  fog"  is  rarely  seen  on 
these  waters ;  but  when  it  forms,  earth  and 
sea  and  sky  are  blotted  out  and  the  window 
panes  are  a  blank. 

But  they  always  lift.  Meanwhile  —  alas ! 
—  a  schooner  or  bark  is  fast  on  rock  or  rip ;  a 
steamer  has  grounded  on  the  bar ;  a  derelict 
has  threatened  a  five-master  with  disaster,  and 
bell  buoys,  sirens,  fog  horns,  searchlights,  and 
the  lighthouse  keeper's  dinner  bell  are  at  work 
in  vain. 

8. 

Perhaps  no  fog  has  been  thicker  and  more 
bewildering  to  the  men  and  women  of  my  genera- 


256  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

tion  than  that  which,  in  Whitman's  words,  may 
be  said  to  be  "the  darkening  and  dazing  with 
books". 

When  a  great  amount  of  stock  is  suddenly 
and  without  warning  unloaded  upon  the  market, 
a  panic  is  precipitated.  When  within  a  genera 
tion  a  million  ideas,  accompanied  by  as  many 
inventions  and  discoveries,  are  unloaded  upon 
men  and  women  who  think,  and  see,  and  hear, 
taste,  smell,  and  feel,  —  human  sensitive-plates, 
all  of  them,  —  there  is  apt  to  be  a  world-wide 
panic  of  unreason,  for  reason  itself  is  befogged. 
These  ideas  are  precipitated  so  suddenly  and 
in  such  masses  along  every  known  line  of  life, 
from  every  direction,  that  man  as  an  entity 
stands  for  a  time  in  their  midst  practically 
lost,  bewildered,  without  guide  or  compass,  or 
if  he  have  a  compass,  it  is  of  no  use.  Reason 
cannot  effect  a  "way  out"  even  if  it  will; 
objectively  it  has  nothing  upon  which  to  work, 
for  all  objects  are  obscured  or,  at  least,  rendered 
disproportionate,  distorted  by  refraction  through 
the  fog  medium. 

No   wonder   so   many   suffer   shipwreck,    are 


SEARCHLIGHTS  257 

lost  in  swamp,  perish  in  the  abyss,  give  over 
life  because  their  poor  human  eyes  fail  to  find 
a  "way  out" 

9- 

This  man  promulgates  his  theory  of  the  uni 
verse  ;  another  proves  it  to  be  useless.  A 
third  advances  a  new  hypothesis  and  a  fourth 
cuts  the  ground  from  under  it  by  one  small  fact 
discovered  through  a  powerful  telescope.  Some 
other  man  makes  a  more  powerful  lens  and  the 
fact  is  shown  to  be  a  fact  only  in  so  far  as  it 
may  be  related  to  and  coordinated  with  future 
discoveries.  These  discoveries  may  shake  as 
tronomy  to  its  foundation.  And  so  on  ad 
infinitum.  All  these  ideas  are  printed,  read  — 
and  the  world  is  dazed. 

Man  not  content  with  the  power  of  his  own 
eye  increases  its  magnifying  and  searching 
power  by  the  use  of  the  microscope.  What 
used  to  be  an  atom  is  no  longer  such.  Division 
can  take  place  infinitely.  Every  lens  more 
powerful  than  another  reveals  new  facts.  Every 
new  fact,  in  relation  to  previous  discovery, 
may  modify  every  other  known  fact.  Men 


2$8  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

search  and  search  —  and  in  the  end  make  plain 
only  that  infinitude  leads  to  infinitude.  All 
these  ideas  are  printed,  read  in  a  truncated 
fashion,  discussed  —  and  the  world  is  be 
wildered  ;  it  cannot  adjust  itself  in  another 
medium. 

Science  has  shown  to  man  himself  —  the 
mechanical  part  of  him.  We  accept  this  fact 
stolidly  for  it  does  not  alter  the  seasons,  affect 
the  harvests,  or  induce  man  to  live  on  one  meal 
a  day.  We  are  as  we  are  ages  before  science  as 
science  was. 

In  astronomy  the  result  may  be  that  we  can 
calculate  the  possible  dimensions  of  a  sun  spot, 
but  we  cannot  avert  disaster  to  the  crops  for  all 
the  calculations.  In  human  life  the  individual 
soul  brings  to  naught  all  collective  results  of 
calculation. 

Now  we  are  being  informed  rather  thoroughly 
as  to  our  mental  makeup.  Psychology  and 
psychiatry  are  busily  at  work  to  show  us  why 
we  think  as  we  do ;  what  we  should  think  given 
certain  environment,  certain  living  conditions. 
Also,  why,  if  we  do  not  think  as  we  should  think 


SEARCHLIGHTS  259 

in  given  conditions,  we  should  be  induced  to 
think  as  others  think  we  ought  to  think  !  All 
this  is  well  in  its  place  —  as  an  experiment ;  but 
meanwhile  we  grope  befogged  by  the  multi 
plicity  of  ideas  and  the  hypnotic  use  of  words, 
words,  and  ever  words,  until  in  the  end  we  some 
times  think  we  do  not  think  at  all. 

That  sane  word  of  Goethe's  is  needed  to  clear 
up  this  fog :  "  I  have  never  thought  about 

thinking." 

10. 

And  here  is  another  word  to  the  wise  :  "  Scien 
tists  need  not  so  much  close  investigation  for 
the  purpose  of  supplying  facts  and  coordinating 
them,  but  the  concentrated  and  prolonged 
thought  on  the  principles  underlying  natural 

phenomena." 

II. 

I  was  standing  at  the  window  one  evening 
last  October,  watching  for  the  coming  of  the 
boat.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  The  night  was 
black,  for  heavy  thunder  clouds  obscured  the 
sky.  I  was  looking  for  the  steamer's  lights 
when,  without  warning,  the  searchlight  focussed 


260  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

me.  It  was  startling.  I  felt  for  that  second 
as  if  every  secret  thought  of  mine  was  laid  bare 
to  the  night,  as  well  as  every  organ  of  my  body. 
This  is  the  kind  of  searchlight  I  should  like  to 
turn  on  the  coming  hundred  years.  , 

But  as  I  cannot  do  that,  I  trust  I  may  be 
permitted  to  turn  the  searchlight  of  a  question 
in  three  different  directions  in  the  hope,  at 
least,  of  picking  up  the  "buoys". 

Twenty  years  ago  I  visited  Hull  House. 
Fancy,  then,  the  pleasure  and  profit  I  have  had 
recently  in  reading  Miss  Addams's  "Twenty 
Years  at  Hull  House".  This  book,  like  the 
Memorials  of  Dr.  Barnardo  of  London,  is  a 
sociological  beacon  as  trusty  as  my  Sankaty 
light  "over  eastward"  across  the  moors. 

In  the  presence  of  such  noble  achievement 
we  feel  the  lifting  of  the  fog ;  we  see  the  clear 
ing  of  the  social  atmosphere.  And  because 
this  work  is  so  noble,  so  far  reaching,  so  full  of 
past  accomplishment  and  future  promise,  I 
should  like  in  all  humility,  but  very  earnestly, 
to  put  one  question  to  its  founder  after  her 
twenty  years  of  such  faithful  work : 


SEARCHLIGHTS  261 

"Would  you,  had  you  opportunity  to  begin 
again  those  twenty  years  of  your  life  work,  which 
has  proved  the  salvation  of  so  many,  and  en 
riched  and  enlightened  as  you  are  by  this  expe 
rience  with  human  kind  during  all  those  years, 
lay  as  the  first  foundation  stone  of  this  work 
—  'the  head  of  the  corner'  —  the  actual  teach 
ing,  not  only  by  example,  to  men  and  women 
and  children  of  these  various  nationalities  the 
power  of  God,  the  Father,  to  sustain  the  spirit 
of  man,  and  the  power  of  salvation  on  this 
earth  through  the  great  truths  of  life  as  taught 
by  Christ?" 

12. 

Truly,  as  Mr.  Gilbert  Murray  says,  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  the  "spiritual  life-blood  of  a 
people".  This  "spiritual  life-blood"  must  be 
nourished ;  and  music,  literature,  painting,  sculp, 
ture,  good  comradeship,  contact  with  finer 
minds,  congenial  work,  help  to  nourish  —  but 
not  satisfactorily.  The  spirit  of  man  cries  out 
for  other  food;  for  that  which  will  give  him 
spiritual  strength  to  endure  the  hardest  con 
ditions  ;  for  that  which  shall  enrich  his  spirit 


262  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

to  such  an  extent  that  to  be  "poor"  is  not,  in 
the  man's  outlook  on  this  life,  the  "great  evil" ; 
that  will  show  him  toil,  labor,  work  as  a  blessing, 
not  a  curse.  The  spirit  of  man  needs  to  be  so 
sustained,  so  nourished  that  cold  shall  not  be 
the  cold  of  degree  but  of  kind  ("Blow,  blow, 
thou  winter  wind,  thou  art  not  so  unkind  as 
man's  ingratitude.") ;  that  suffering  of  the  body 
shall  be  endurable  in  comparison  with  the 
suffering  that  comes  from  the  consciousness 
of  sin ;  that  the  hunger  of  the  body  cannot 
kill  the  hunger  of  the  soul  for  God ;  that  death 
shall  be  not  only  the  "way  out",  but  the  "way 
in".  Into  what?  —  We  may  not  know;  and 
life  accepted  on  these  terms  is  faith. 

13- 

These  things  are  of  the  mysteries.  Yet  even 
as  I  write  that  word  "mysteries",  I  recall  what 
a  man  who  deals  daily  with  life  and  death  said 
to  me  a  year  ago  :  "It  is  all  so  simple,"  —  this 
power  of  God  to  sustain  the  spirit,  and  the 
meaning  of  Christ's  life  on  earth.  It  is  simple 
—  to  be  comprehended  by  every  human  being 


SEARCHLIGHTS  263 

if  only  the  channel  can  be  opened  by  which 
man's  spirit  "  may  flow  direct  to  God  ". 

Swedenborg  wrote  thirty-eight  —  I  think  I 
am  correct  in  this  number  —  octavo  volumes, 
many  of  them  to  interpret  Christianity.  Christ 
interpreted  it  in  eight  words  :  "  I  am  come  to  show 
you  the  Father." 

14. 

This  world  is  not  so  very  old.  At  heart  it 
is  still  aglow;  and  constantly,  although  we 
may  be  unconscious  of  it,  it  sends  forth  from 
its  glowing  heart  an  energy  and  life-force  by 
which  our  bodies  are  helped  to  live.  One  and 
all  in  this  world  are  dependent  on  it. 

Neither  is  this  humanity  of  ours  so  very  old 
—  not  yet.  Its  heart  is  aglow.  But  the  crust 
is  thickening.  Feeding  the  spirit  of  man  fans 
that  heart-flame  and  sets  free  a  life-force,  the 
value  of  which  can  be  hourly  demonstrated. 
The  spirit  of  man  must  have  sustenance,  must 
be  fed,  and  not  only  fed  but  nourished,  else  the 
material  facts  of  life  in  their  complexity  will 
overwhelm,  overcome  him.  "Man  shall  not 
live  by  bread  alone." 


264  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

IS- 

And  once  more  letting  the  searchlight-beam 
travel  slowly  across  the  length  and  breadth  of 
our  country,  I  wish  it  might  find  and  illumine 
the  mind,  heart,  and  soul  of  an  Indian  of  the 
past  generation,  a  Winnebago,  for  instance. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  he  thinks  of  our 
vaunted  "civilization"?  How  he  feels  in  re 
gard  to  the  many  philanthropic  experiments 
that  have  been  tried  upon  him  ?  How  his  soul 
regards  the  Great  Mystery  in  the  face  of  his 
race's  devolution  ? 

I  should  like  to  know  if  he  have  kept  his  faith. 

Thereafter  the  beam,  travelling  slowly,  should 
seek  out  this  island  and  pick  up  my  own  soul 
as  it  picked  up  the  buoys  on  that  dark  night  in 
October.  And  looking  into  that  mystery  I  should 
ask  of  myself :  "How  dare  you  question  another 
soul  when  you  may  not  know  your  own  ?" 

16. 

I,  like  other  humans,  do  not  wish  to  be  mis 
understood.  If  I  rebel  against  the  fact  that, 


SEARCHLIGHTS  265 

on  account  of  the  elements  of  which  I  am  com 
posed  and  the  laws  that  are  supposed  to  govern 
my  creation,  I  am  classed  with  peas,  beans, 
rabbits,  guinea  pigs,  and  monkeys  for  the  sake 
of  experimentation,  it  is  not  for  a  moment  to 
be  interpreted  that  I  do  not  see  and  acknowl 
edge  with  reverence  and  thankfulness  the  great 
work  of  science;  that  I  do  not  bow  before  the 
patience,  the  sacrifice,  the  toil  that  has  given 
and  gives  such  marvellous  results  so  beneficial 
to  mankind.  But  I  rebel  against  the  word  of 
science  being  the  final  word  for  mankind.  Nor 
am  I  alone  in  considering  this  attitude  of  finality 
"antiquated". 

Personally,  I  feel  very  near  at  times  to  the 
fish  in  the  sea,  the  bird  in  the  air,  to  the  lowly 
grass  and  the  flowers  in  which  the  dust  of  my 
material  frame  may  appear  again  on  this  earth. 
When  I  see  the  petals  of  a  flower  prepare  for 
the  flower-sleep,  when  at  sunset  I  see  a  raccoon 
curled  about  the  branch  of  a  tall  tree  like  a 
chestnut  burr  on  a  twig,  I,  too,  feel  a  certain 
natural  kinship.  I  realize  I  am  something  of 
each.  Nay,  more,  I  have  a  feeling  of  pleasant 


266  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

relationship  with  an  intelligent  monkey,  and 
never  omit  an  opportunity  to  put  a  five-cent 
piece  into  the  tiny  —  oh,  so  human  !  —  hand 
that  is  thrust  at  me  from  the  top  of  the  hurdy- 
gurdy.  Indeed,  I  would  pay  far  more  just  to 
see  at  close  range  the  inquiring  lift  of  those 
callouses  that  stand  for  eyebrows,  and  the  roll 
of  those  beady  eyes.  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I 
feel  wholly  unrelated  to  an  electric  light  as  I 
stand  by  the  post.  I  realize  that  I  am  one 
with  the  universal  elements,  not  so  far  removed 
from  their  curious  combinations  and  expressions 
that  I  dare  say  to  anyone  of  them,  "I  am  made 
of  different  material  from  you." 

But  —  when  it  comes  to  the  fact  of  my  own 
soul,  my  spirit  draws  the  line.  Into  that 
spiritual  fastness  of  mine  no  one  has  a  right 
to  penetrate  forcibly,  to  deny  its  existence, 
or  try  to  prove  there  is  no  such  thing,  or  attempt 
to  show  that  what  I  call  "my  soul"  has  been 
gradually  evolved  during  aeons,  as  matter,  from 
occult  processes  in  the  evolution  of  the  amoeba. 

I  may  not  know  my  own  soul  except  dimly, 
in  part,  —  how  can  I,  it  being  of  the  essence 


SEARCHLIGHTS  267 

of  the  Creator  whose  "  thoughts  are  as  high 
above  my  poor  thought  as  the  heavens  are 
above  the  earth"  ?  But  I  know  I  possess  one; 
/  have  that  knowledge,  —  although  no  one  else 
may  have  it,  —  and  I  know  that  it  is  the  reason 
for  my  being  on  this  earth  ;  that  for  me  to  deny 
it  is  to  deny  me  as  a  fact. 

I  know  that  I  may  not  know  but  in  part  this 
soul  of  mine,  but  that  what  I  know  of  it  assures 
me  that  I  may  not  enter  into  another's  soul. 
It  is  that  part  of  me  as  an  individual  that 
another  may  not  touch.  Even  love  may  not 
fuse  one  soul  with  another  soul ;  and  the  non- 
knowledge  of  this  has  been  and  is  productive  of 
such  misery  among  men  and  women  ! 

I  touch  it,  at  times,  tangentially  only ;  but  at 
others  I  may  enter  a  little  way  into  that  spirit 
ual  fastness  and  know  something  of  its  essence 
through  intuitions  that  may  not  be  denned  or 
even  catalogued.  This  soul  of  mine  abides,  in 
a  way,  apart.  But  it  is  mine,  and  to  it  I  owe 
all  that  interprets  this  life,  all  that  makes  this 
life  the  great  miracle,  all  that  enables  me  to 
endure  the  thought  of  the  saddened  life  of  the 


268  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

world,  all  that  convinces  me  we  "know  only  in 
part";  all  that  makes  me  conscious  of  some 
kind  —  I  care  not  what  kind  it  may  be  —  of 
immortality. 

A  materialist  knows  nothing  of  this  ;  nothing 
either  of  the  universal  soul  —  or  of  mine. 

17- 

I  love  to  recall  that  word  of  George  Sand's ; 
I  am  glad  to  record  it  just  here  :  "II  n'y  a  de 
sur  dans  ce  monde  que  ce  qui  se  passe  entre 
Dieu  et  nous." 


XVIII 

THE    GULLS   AND   AVIATION 
I. 

ON  a  Sunday  morning,  two  years  ago,  I  was 
on  one  of  the  large  yachts  anchored  in  the 
harbor.  After  luncheon  I  had  the  deck  to  my 
self,  barring  the  captain  and  two  or  three  of  the 
crew  forward. 

A  strong,  southwest  wind  was  blowing  and 
threatened  to  increase.  There  were  hundreds 
of  gulls  flying  about  over  the  harbor  and  in 
dulging  in  some  aeronautic  gymnastics  solely 
it  seemed  for  their  own  pleasure.  But  that  was 
not  so,  for  I  was  an  interested  and  delighted 
audience  of  one. 

Through  a  powerful  glass  I  watched  their 
movements  for  two  hours. 

No  aeroplane  has  yet  ventured  to  cross  the 
sound  and  a  portion  of  the  open  sea  from  the 
mainland  to  this  island.  But  that  day  will 

269 


270  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

come;  this  is  written  in  the  Domesday  Book 
of  Progress.  If,  for  instance,  a  flight  were 
made  from  the  life-saving  station  at  Monomoy 
on  the  Cape,  with  the  powerful  stationary 
glass  on  my  back  porch  I  could  follow  the  entire 
course. 

Watching  these  gulls  so  closely  gave  rise  to 
doubts,  to  questions  as  to  the  final  stability 
and  utility  of  the  aeroplane  or  any  invention 
by  which  men  may  seek  in  future  to  conquer  the 
air.  These  living  aeroplanes  knew  exactly 
what  they  were  about.  With  heavy,  powerful, 
labored  downward  stroke  they  would  beat 
slowly  up  at  an  angle  of  thirty  degrees  against 
the  strong  wind  —  one  mile,  two  miles,  until 
they  were  high  over  the  island.  Then  —  well, 
I  cannot  say  just  what  happened.  They  cer 
tainly  turned  "on  edge"  when  they  tacked 
sharply  and  centripetally  to  come  round  before 
the  wind;  but  in  so  doing  they  apparently 
turned  turtle,  for  the  wind  was  very  strong. 

I  cannot  prove  this,  not  after  those  two  hours 
of  patient  watching;  but  I  failed  to  see  how 
they  could  make  so  sharp  a  turn  in  the  face 


THE  GULLS  AND  AVIATION  271 

of  that  strong  wind  without  a  half-second  of 
capsizing.  Now  that  we  know  that  aviators 
have  flown  head  downwards,  it  may  be  possible 
that  the  gulls  adjusted  themselves  in  some  such 
manner  on  that  afternoon.  The  long,  swift 
glide  on  full-spread  wings  to  the  level  of  the 
water  was  a  thing  to  remember. 

Again  and  again  they  returned  to  their  sport, 
beating  up  against  the  increasing  wind,  laboring 
heavily  as  I  could  plainly  see,  covering  the  up 
ward  course  only  to  perform  that  "on  edge" 
turn  at  the  height  of  their  flight  over  the  island 
and  glide  down  triumphantly  on  the  aerial 
toboggan  slide. 

It  reminded  me  of  that  at  once  —  toboggan 
ing,  and  the  long  hard  pull  up  the  hill  for 
the  sake  of  the  glorious  minute  of  rapid  de 
scent. 

2. 

After  watching  the  gulls  for  so  long  a  time, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  in  the  present  make  of 
aeroplanes,  the  rigidity  of  the  planes,  the  angle 
of  their  jointure  and  the  location  of  the  centre 
of  gravity  must  militate  against  all  permanent 


272  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

stability  in  flight.     But  perhaps  the  Burgess- 
Dunne  machine  may  solve  this  problem. 

Still,  as  I  think  it  over,  I  cannot  see  how  the 
air  in  movement  is  to  be  conquered;  for  even 
the  gulls  feel  the  great  winds  and  are  driven 
helplessly  before  them  against  any  object,  like 
the  lighthouse  lantern,  that  is  in  their  aerial 
path.  Moreover,  the  most  of  them  lie  low  some 
where  during  a  great  gale. 

3- 

Captain  Paul  W.  Beck  writes  :  "In  actual 
flight  I  have  experienced  side  slips,  lateral  fore 
and  aft  disturbances  in  balance,  right  or  left 
drifts  and  other  actual  movements  that  I  have 
been  utterly  unable  to  explain  by  any  theory 
that  exists.  This  experience  is  not  unique, 
however;  upon  reciting  some  of  these  expe 
riences  to  'pure'  scientists,  I  have  been  met 
with  looks  that  plainly  indicated  that  I  was 
either  stating  untruths  or  was  an  egregious  idiot. 
They  would  prove  mathematically  and  scien 
tifically  that  which  I  already  knew,  viz.,  that 
my  experience  was  impossible.  Yet  the  ex 
periences  stand." 


THE  GULLS  AND  AVIATION  273 

4- 

We  experience  something  of  this  when,  over 
against  the  "pure"  scientist  and  materialist, 
we  assert  some  intimations  of  immortality  — 
what  may  be  termed  unaccountable,  spiritual 
"side  slips",  "right  and  left  drifts".  They 
say  they  are  "impossible  experiences". 

Yet  such  experiences  stand. 


XIX 

DEEP    SEA    SOUNDINGS 
I. 

I  HAVE  taken  so  many  in  my  life.  Sometimes, 
and  the  majority  of  times,  they  have  yielded 
me  nothing.  Sometimes  what  has  been  brought 
up  from  the  depths  has  not  been  worth  examina 
tion.  Much  has  been  strange,  unaccountable, 
impossible  to  classify  because  unrecognizable 
for  any  known  thing.  Some  findings  have 
been  familiar  and  as  a  result  the  depths  have 
not  seemed  bottomless.  At  such  times  I  feel 
that  the  lead  has  actually  touched  bottom. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson  said  :  "I  do  not  think 
we  have  a  right  to  withhold  from  the  world  a 
word  or  a  thought,  any  more  than  a  deed,  which 
might  help  a  single  soul."  Perhaps  I,  too, 
have  no  right  to  withhold  from  others  what  I 
have  brought  to  the  surface  from  deep  sea 
soundings.  The  fact  that  these  results  have 
enlightened  me  may  be  proof  that  they  may 

274 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  275 

help  to  enlighten  another ;  for  does  not  Balzac 
say  :  "Nous  allons  de  nous  aux  hommes,  jamais 
des  hommes  a  nous"  ? 

2. 

It  seems  to  me  that  I  always  come  very  late 
—  two,  three,  four,  sometimes  ten  years  after 
publication  —  to  every  book  worth  reading 
"for  keeps".  A  book  is  written,  printed,  criti 
cized,  lauded  or  condemned,  and  to  me  remains 
unknown,  except  for  a  review  of  it ;  then,  long 
afterwards,  I  turn  the  corner  of  a  library  alcove, 
for  instance  in  this  Island  Athenaeum,  and  there 
it  is  holding  out  a  hand  to  me  and  inviting  me 
to  enjoy  it. 

This  Athenaeum  is  a  delightful  place  in  which 
to  browse,  to  read,  to  explore  unknown  coasts 
by  way  of  books.  I  like  its  outside ;  the  great 
portico  pillars  remind  me  of  the  Acropolis  at 
Athens.  I  like  the  inside  and  its  seductive  in 
consequence.  It  is  such  a  relief,  after  the  cut- 
and-dried  processes  by  which  a  book  is  obtained 
from  any  of  the  great  libraries,  to  prefer  a  simple 
request:  "I  should  like  this  book,  please;" 


276  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

and  it  is  yours,  with  a  reassuring  smile  that  it 
may  continue  yours  by  judicious  renewal. 

There  is  one  corner  I  call  the  "ancestral 
retreat"  ;  it  is  filled  with  charming  old  books  on 
genealogy.  They  hobnob  —  reaching  out  a 
hand  across  a  century,  and  more  —  with  the 
latest  "Life",  "Letters",  or  "Discoveries". 

On  a  table  near  at  hand  are  some  wonderful 
maps  by  the  United  States  Geological  Survey  of 
North  Dakota  between  the  Red  River  and  the 
beginning  of  the  Missouri  plateau ;  the  region 
is  thickly  strewn  with  bits  of  terminal  moraines 
—  which  fact,  in  my  thought  of  it,  makes  this 
other  bit  of  island  terminal  moraine  in  the 
Atlantic  akin  to  those  far  northern  plains. 
A  few  steps  aside  and  you  find  a  revolving 
bookrack  filled  with  readable  delights.  I  dis 
covered  there  one  day  "Coke  of  Norfolk  and 
His  Friends " ;  and  after  reading  it  decided 
that  I  knew  more  of  the  American  War  for 
Independence  and  of  the  England  of  the  eigh 
teenth  century  through  that  one  book,  than  I 
had  learned  all  my  previous  life  from  historical 
gleanings. 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  277 

On  the  walls  may  be  seen  the  painting  of  a 
clipper  ship  under  full  sail,  and  not  far  away 
the  benevolent  portrait  face  of  Lucretia  Mott; 
farther  on  a  loan  collection  of  Rembrandt 
prints. 

One  nook  is  for  foreign  literature.  A  sign 
of  the  times  is  a  small  collection  of  books  in 
Portuguese  for  the  benefit  of  the  foreign  con 
tingent  in  the  population. 

There  is  no  distinctive  booky  atmosphere 
about  the  Athenaeum;  it  is  a  homey,  cozy 
gathering-place  for  the  intellectual  life  of  the 
people  of  the  island.  I  rarely  visit  it  without 
anticipating  some  delightful  find,  and  I  am  as 
rarely  disappointed.  A  few  months  ago  I 
came  upon  Maeterlinck's  book,  "The  Treasure 
of  the  Humble".  It  invited  me  to  make  ac 
quaintance  with  it  —  intimate  acquaintance ; 
and  dipping  into  it  then  and  there,  suddenly  I 
found  that  I  was  " sounding  in  the  deep  sea". 
I  kept  on  paying  out  my  line,  and  the  lead 
finally  touching  bottom  I  brought  to  the  surface 
what  will  be  found  to  be  the  truth  concerning 
true  love. 


278  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

Here  is  Maeterlinck's  word  which,  read  with 
reverence,  should  enlighten  a  world. 

"When  Fate  sends  forth  the  woman  it  has 
chosen  for  us  —  sends  her  forth  from  the  fast 
nesses  of  the  great  spiritual  cities  in  which  we, 
all  unconsciously,  dwell,  and  she  awaits  us  at 
the  crossing  of  the  road  we  have  to  traverse 
when  the  hour  has  come  —  we  are  warned  at 
the  first  glance.  Some  there  are  who  attempt 
to  force  the  hand  of  Fate.  Wildly  pressing 
down  their  eyelids,  so  as  not  to  see  that  which 
had  to  be  seen  —  struggling  with  all  their  puny 
strength  against  the  electric  force  —  they  will 
contrive  to  cross  the  road  and  go  towards 
another,  sent  thither  but  not  for  them.  But 
strive  as  they  may,  they  will  not  succeed  in 
*  stirring  up  the  dead  waters  that  lie  in  the 
great  tarn  of  the  future'.  Nothing  will  happen. 
The  pure  force  will  not  descend  from  the  heights 
and  those  wasted  hours  and  kisses  will  never 
become  part  of  the  real  hours  and  kisses  of  their 
lives." 

This  is  one  of  the  results  of  deep  sea  soundings 
of  Love  which  is  Life.  Examine  it  closely, 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  279 

put  it  under  the  microscope  of  experience,  and 
we  recognize  it  to  be  a  great  truth.  And  be 
cause  this  truth  is  not  recognized  by  all,  in 
terpreted  by  all,  we  find  the  confusion  of  stand 
ards,  the  unhappiness,  the  misery  of  "Love's 
Wayfaring"  —  we  see  the  very  thongs  which 
bind  in  the  "Wayfaring  of  Love"  that  Burne- 
Jones  has  painted. 

Maeterlinck  prefaces  this  with,  "Of  the  true, 
predestined  love  alone,  do  I  speak  here." 

But  to  those  who  interpret  correctly,  to  them 
is  given  to  know  the  heights  and  the  depths, 
the  patience,  the  long-suffering  of  Love  —  its 
God-given  strength  to  endure. 

How  the  millions  of  the  Human  Race  toil 
for  the  sustenance  of  this  Love  that  means 
Life  !  The  very  thought  warms  the  heart. 

3- 

My  creed  as  a  worker  is  very  simple.  It 
has  few  articles.  There  can  be  no  real  work  of 
any  kind  without  toil  —  which  interpreted  is 
perseverance,  patience,  endurance  applied  to 
daily  and  hourly  tasks. 


280  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

Long  ago  I  ceased  to  consider  the  mere 
amassing  of  riches  by  men  for  the  sake  of  amass 
ing  them  either  true  work  or  toil.  It  is  what 
may  be  termed  slavery,  and  consequent  loss  of 
true  life  in  ignoble  servitude. 

Work  —  toil  —  is  man's  greatest  blessing,  a 
blessing  that  makes  mentally,  bodily,  spirit 
ually  for  health,  provided  it  be  not  continuous 
overwork.  We  have  constantly  before  our  eyes 
evidence  of  the  fact  that  overwork  kills,  ex 
cessive  toil  exhausts.  But  —  it  is  better  to  die 
than  to  be  idle ;  better  to  succumb  than  to 
live  supine.  Better  to  have  an  ideal,  a  hope,  a 
legitimate  ambition  and  die  in  the  attempt 
to  realize  that  ideal,  fulfil  that  hope,  accom 
plish  what  is  aimed  at,  than  to  live  in  indolence, 
to  live  without  effort,  workless. 

Soldiers  fall  in  the  ranks ;  men  drop  at  their 
toil ;  women  sink  beneath  the  load  imposed  on 
them  or  assumed  of  their  own  free  will.  This 
is  the  way  of  Life. 

And  the  way  of  Death  ?  —  What  is  a  better 
guidepost  therein  than  these  words  of  Auerbach  : 
"Fertig  sein  ist  der  beginnende  Tod."  The 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  281 

meaning  in  free  translation  may  read :  We  have 
entered  already  on  the  path  of  Death  when 
there  is  no  longer  something  for  which  we  may 
work.  Satiety  is  slow  death. 

4- 

Once  at  a  musical  extravaganza,  I  was 
watching  intently  and  with  an  uneasy  feeling 
the  girls  in  a  chorus-ballet.  There  was  no  en 
joyment  for  me  in  this,  for  I  knew  the  encores 
had  been  too  many  and  the  dancers  —  using 
their  breath  in  singing  —  would  soon  be  ex 
hausted  with  the  repetition  of  their  strenuous 
bodily  exercise.  Suddenly  a  girl,  a  thin,  frail 
creature,  fell  forward  out  of  the  fictitiously 
joyous  ranks  —  rigid.  She  was  removed ;  the 
dancing  chorus  closing  up  in  front  of  her.  It 
was  death  —  there  on  the  stage.  The  extrav 
aganza  went  on,  without  life  or  spirit,  it  is  true ; 
but  men  and  women  played  their  parts  to  the  end. 

I  have  thought  so  often  since  of  that  frail 
young  thing.  She  was  supporting  herself,  and 
doubtless  another.  She  was  doing  her  duty. 
Like  a  good  soldier  she  fell  fighting  in  the 


282  FROM  AN   ISLAND  OUTPOST 

ranks.  Life  had  given  her  something  —  and 
Death  gave  her  far,  far  more :  it  took  her 
suddenly  from  all  deadening  power  of  lingering 
disease,  from  all  prolonged  misery  of  want,  from 
all  the  hard,  hard  struggle  for  her  daily  bread, 
saved  her,  possibly,  from  a  living  death. 

I  have  thought,  at  times,  one  might  indeed 
envy  her.  One  woman,  at  least,  honors  her 
memory. 

5- 

I  believe  in  Work  of  some  kind  for  all.  I 
believe  that  work  should  be  so  regulated  that 
in  an  occupation  which  menaces  health  the 
hours  should  be  very  few,  the  shifts  many,  the 
wages  large. 

A  friend  of  mine  worked  as  machinist  in  a 
machine  shop  until  the  iron  filings  hurt  the 
delicate  lung  tissue  and  hemorrhage  resulted. 
Rescued  from  that  work,  he  found  other  and 
enjoys  that  to  this  day. 

6. 

I  believe  that  no  man  should  be  asked  to 
work  more  than  eight  hours  a  day  —  and  that 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  283 

no  man  should  be  deprived  of  the  privilege  of  work 
ing  twelve  hours  if  so  minded.  I  believe  that 
children,  despite  the  child-labor  laws,  —  the  aim 
of  which  is  wholly  laudable,  but  the  regulation 
by  them  of  child  life  not  adapted  to  our  present 
economical  and  educational  conditions,  —  should 
be  allowed  a  certain  amount  of  work ;  should 
be  permitted  to  begin  to  earn  something  at  an 
early  age.  They  are  happier  with  the  right 
amount  of  work ;  they  are  unhappy  without  it. 

7. 

I  fail  to  see  that  the  toil  which  exhausts  the 
body,  mutilates  it,  or  kills  it,  is  so  great  a  curse 
as  the  alcoholism  that  kills  the  body  after  ex 
hausting  it,  wrecking  the  intellect,  weakening 
the  will,  and  inducing  to  crimes  untold. 

8. 

I  believe  that  no  kind  of  toil  should  preclude 
the  possibility  of  an  education  of  the  right  kind. 
In  making  this  statement,  I  acknowledge  that 
education  —  as  education  is  understood  To 
day  —  never  yet  produced  character.  Neither 


284  FROM  AN  ISLAND   OUTPOST 

will  work  produce  it ;  but  it  will  develop  it. 
I  do  not  hold  education,  as  we  are  accustomed 
to  define  it,  in  such  high  esteem  as  many  others. 

The  heart  actually  teaches  for  this  life  better 
than  books.  Character  makes  for  a  better 
moral  environment  than  mere  "culture",  so 
called. 

When  we  approach  the  problem  of  education 
—  as  it  is  understood  at  present  —  versus  the 
toilers,  we  are,  as  a  nation,  "all  at  sea".  Deep 
sea  soundings  are  in  order  here.  As  for  this 
generation,  it  has  been  experimented  with  along 
so  many  educational  lines  that  the  marvel  is 
that  it  can  produce  another  generation  upon 
which  to  continue  the  experiment. 

9- 

In  Miss  Addams'  book,  which  I  have  already 
mentioned,  I  was  greatly  interested  in  the  ac 
count  of  her  visit  to  Tolstoy  made  in  the  hope 
that  it  might  assure  her  that  "Tolstoy's  under 
taking  to  do  his  daily  share  of  the  physical 
labor  of  the  world,  that  labor  which  is  'so  dis 
proportionate  to  the  unnourished  strength' 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  285 

of  those  by  whom  it  is  ordinarily  performed, 
had  brought  him  peace  !" 

Tolstoy  was  so  great  in  his  simplicity,  so 
earnest  in  his  interpretation  of  the  ideal  that 
regulated  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  that  to  me 
he  has  been  and  will  remain  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  figures  in  sociological  history.  He 
failed  to  sound  deep  enough  —  but  it  was  no 
fault  of  his. 

He  struggled  to  be  one  with  the  toilers.  He 
worked  as  a  toiler.  He  strove  to  square  his 
life  by  Christ's.  He  believed  that  only  so  — 
by  his  daily  toil  in  the  fields,  by  his  simple  fare 
—  could  soul  and  body  be  rightly  nourished; 
in  simple  fare,  simple  life,  simple  love  of  man 
kind,  strenuous  physical  labor  showing  itself 
in  daily  toil  at  the  side  of  the  peasant  worker, 
could  be  found  a  panacea  for  the  misery  of 
life,  a  reconciliation  of  life  with  its  glaring 
inconsistencies  of  social  conditions. 

He  failed  to  grasp  this  truth :  Between  the 
man  who  has  and  is  not  obliged  to  work  for  his 
daily  bread,  and  the  man  who  has  not  and  must 
toil  from  day  to  day  not  knowing  whence  the 


286  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

next  dollar  is  to  come  for  the  support  of  himself 
and  those  dependent  on  him  unless  he  continue 
to  work,  work,  and  ever  work,  there  is  fixed  an 
impassable  gulf.  It  cannot  be  bridged  by 
sympathy,  by  intuition,  by  aid  given  gener 
ously  in  the  true  spirit  of  Christ.  It  is  there; 
and  it  cannot  be  bridged. 

Tolstoy  could  not  rid  himself  of  his  past. 
He  was  born  into  a  state  of  society  in  which  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  feel  the  pressure  of 
poverty.  No  earnest  and  faithful  attempt  on 
his  part  could  extract  him  from  his  inherited 
environment ;  no  effort,  however  prolonged, 
eradicate  from  his  mentality  the  knowledge 
that  there  was  "always  something  on  which  to 
depend".  Nor  could  he  render  himself  wholly 
dependent  on  his  daily  toil  for  his  daily  bread. 

This  man's  awful  spiritual  struggle  to  counter 
act  his  past  and  his  inherited  environment  by  a 
life  of  self-imposed  toil  is  one  of  the  present 
day's  great  tragedies.  Struggle  as  he  might, 
he  could  not  bridge  that  abyss.  It  is  no  wonder 
Miss  Addams  failed  to  find  what  she  so  earnestly 
sought. 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  287 

Personally,  I  have  always  felt  that  if  Tolstoy 
with  that  earnestness  of  spirit  that  flamed  with 
the  intensity  of  an  apostle's  zeal  could  have 
accepted  his  past  and  present  and  used  the 
great  gift  of  his  intellect,  the  flame  of  his  spirit, 
the  infinite  pity  and  love  of  his  heart,  the  great 
power  of  his  life  experience,  in  giving  to  the 
world  more  of  the  masterpieces  like  those  for 
which  we  are  so  deeply  indebted  to  him,  the 
world  would  have  been  enriched,  taught,  helped 
to  a  degree  that  his  attempt  to  make  himself 
one  with  the  toilers  fell  far  short  of. 

Like  his  Levin,  in  "Anna  Karenina",  his 
lead  failed  to  sound  the  depths  of  existence, 
but  not  through  any  lack  of  earnest,  yes,  tragic 
effort  on  his  part.  It  was  his  fate  to  have  been 
born  as  he  was.  That  fate  produced  a  thinker 
who  saw  in  physical  toil  alone  the  salvation  of 

man. 

10. 

Evolution  in  all  its  phases  that  come  before 
our  eyes  is  most  interesting,  entertaining. 

I  remember  that  at  the  Columbian  Exposition 
in  Chicago  I  spent  an  hour  most  profitably, 


288  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

most  entertainingly,  with  numerous  examples  of 
the  process  of  evolution  of  the  locomotive. 
Later  I  found  in  the  ethnological  section  what 
might  be  labelled  "The  process  of  evolution  as 
shown  in  the  skull  of  man".  There  were  the 
skulls  of  the  various  races  at  various  periods, 
and  the  skull  of  prehistoric  man.  Accompany 
ing  these  was,  of  course,  the  skull  of  a  man- 
ape,  perhaps  of  Borneo  ! 

In  Boston  a  few  months  ago,  I  was  watching 
the  entrance  of  one  of  the  great  driving  machines 
of  the  present  day  —  a  locomotive  of  the  New 
York  Limited  —  into  the  South  Station.  I 
stood  on  the  platform  for  a  moment  looking 
at  the  behemoth.  In  appearance  it  was  as  far 
removed  from  the  latest  in  that  line  at  the 
Columbian  Exposition  as  that  was  removed  from 
the  little  wood  engine  and  the  train  of  coaches 
of  1831. 

I  looked  up  at  the  monster  breathing  heavily 
above  me  and  said  to  myself:  "Well,  it's  just 
steam  after  all  —  the  pulse  of  this  machine  —  no 
matter  what  the  change  of  form,  as  the  instru 
ment  of  this  steam  power,  induced  by  change 


DEEP  SEA   SOUNDINGS  289 

of  environment  and  railroad  conditions.  This 
machine  is  the  final  form  of  the  adaptation  of 
steam  to  locomotives.  But  it  is  the  same 
steam,  the  same  power  that  propels  it  through 
all  its  changes  in  form.  Steam  it  is  and  steam 
it  has  always  been,  despite  the  evolution  of  the 
instrument  into  this  '  No  — '  towering  above  me." 
This  is  precisely  how  I  felt  about  those  skulls  : 

—  flat   foreheads,   pointed  foreheads,  full  fore 
heads,  low  foreheads,  acute  facial  angles,  obtuse 
facial   angles,   or  no   angles   at  all   practically, 
flattened  occiput,  protruding  occiput,  receding 
jaw,  protruding  jaw  —  h'm  ! 

I  said  to  myself :  "These  were  men  animated 
by  the  spirit  of  man.  The  machine  adapted 
itself  to  this,  that,  or  the  other  environment 

—  had  to  —  but  the  spirit  of  man,  which  makes 
him  a  man,  remains  throughout  all  changes  of 
form  the  same  spirit  of  man." 

This  thought  was  a  positive  comfort  to  me, 
and  no  process  of  evolution  has  ever  appalled 
me  since  that  day,  only  interested,  instructed, 
entertained.  Evolution  has  been  at  work  — 
always,  —  that  is  all  we  can  say  to  designate  un- 


290  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

recorded  time,  —  at  work  before  any  law  for 
mulated  it ;  and  the  formulating  of  the  law  can 
not  change  its  working  or  the  lines  along  which 
it  works.  This  is  another  comfort. 

As  for  the  man-ape  of  Borneo  —  I  have  my 
own  theory  in  regard  to  his  skull  and  himself. 
It  is  abstruse,  I  confess ;  and  I  dare  not  submit 
it  to  scientists.  Not  for  fear  of  being  laughed 
at !  Oh,  no ;  but  because  I  truly  believe  that 
they  never  have  taken  such  intuitive  deep  sea 
soundings  in  this  special  latitude  and  longitude 
on  the  ocean  of  evolution  as  have  I.  (And, 
of  course,  no  scientist  ever  does  take  an  "intuitive 
sounding"  !)  This  must  read  and  sound  rightly 
audacious.  I  realize  it  —  none  better ;  but, 
after  all,  any  one  is  at  liberty  to  have  a  little 
private  theory  of  one's  own  about  anything 
on  the  earth  or  in  the  heavens.  I  have  very 
few  theories  about  things  in  general,  but  I  have 
a  decided  one  for  this  special  subject. 

ii. 

And  because  evolution  is  held  accountable 
for  almost  all  that  takes  place  nowadays,  it 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  291 

delights  me  to  know  that,  as  a  process,  in  one 
instance,  at  least,  it  is  completely  balked ;  it 
"fails  to  work"  in  this  case  of  the  spirit  of  man. 

Along  certain  lines  there  is  no  such  process. 

For  instance :  I  say  to  some  boys  who  are 
having  recess  in  the  house,  on  account  of  a  stormy 
day,  and  are  ranged  one  behind  the  other  play 
ing  tug-of-war  to  the  detriment  of  knickerbockers 
and  jacket  belts  —  the  smallest  boy,  of  course, 
at  the  head  of  the  "tug":  —  "Boys,  if  you 
don't  keep  your  line  away  from  that  glass  door 
in  the  corridor  some  of  you  will  go  through  it." 

Now  those  boys  really  have  a  good  deal  of 
faith  in  me.  They  know  I  wish  them  well; 
that  what  I  say  is  probably  the  truth,  —  if 
they  think  at  all  about  it  which  is  doubtful,  — 
for  in  their  boys'  way  they  have  tested  me  and 
found  that  I  am  truthful  with  them.  But, 
acknowledging  all  this,  subconsciously  perhaps, 
they  shout  as  one:  "Oh,  no,  we  won't  —  we'll 
be  careful !"  ("Careful"  and  a  boy  !) 

In  a  few  minutes  there  is  a  tremendous  crash. 
Some  frightened  boys  appear  bringing  with  them 
another  boy  —  of  course  the  smallest  at  the 


292  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

head  of  the  "tug"  —  with  the  feeble  explanation 
that  "a  fellow  let  go  too  soon".  As  a  result 
the  small  boy's  head  was  propelled  by  sheer 
momentum  through  that  glass  door. 

Fortunately  the  jugular  vein  is  not  severed, 
but  I  have  the  doubtful  task  of  picking  out  fine 
splinters  of  glass  from  the  scalp  of  a  closely 
cropped  small  head. 

When  he  feels  better  —  not  so  "wobbly"  — 
he  tries  to  explain  to  me  that  he  went  through 
"head  on".  Perhaps  he  thinks  I  need  enlight 
enment  ! 

Would  there  be  any  use  in  my  saying  after 
this,  "I  told  you  so"  ? 

A  physician  says  to  a  man  :  "If  you  begin 
with  that  drug  you  will  acquire  the  habit  and 
such  and  such  will  be  the  result."  But  the  man 
trusts  to  his  own  power  of  resistance ;  he  says : 
"Oh,  no;  it  sha'n't  get  the  better  of  me.  I'll 
be  careful." 

But  the  habit  is  formed  before  he  realizes  it 
and  his  power  of  resistance  is  not  sufficient  to 
overcome  it.  No  one  has  yet  defined  the  safety 
line  for  the  making  of  a  bad  habit.  In  course 


DEEP  SEA  SOUNDINGS  293 

of  time  the  result  justifies  the  physician's 
warning. 

A  father  says  to  a  son :  "  If  you  do  so  and  so, 
if  you  abuse  your  health,  if  you  make  such  and 
such  experiments  with  life,  so  and  so  will  happen 
—  not  to  your  benefit.  /  have  found  this  out 
by  bitter  experience.  Profit  by  my  experience ; 
be  warned  in  time." 

But  the  son  says  to  himself :  "I  am  I ;  father 
is  father.  I  can  do  what  he  couldn't.  Each  is 
a  law  unto  himself;"  and  goes  his  way  irrespec 
tive  of  parental  warning. 

These  cases  can  be  multiplied  with  the  multi 
plier  of  the  human  race.  So  far  as  we  have 
record  of  men's  lives  we  find  no  tendency  for 
one  man  to  learn  of  another  and  more  expe 
rienced,  so  far  as  his  individual  experiment  with 
life  is  concerned.  Generation  after  generation 
begins  on  the  footing  of  the  first  generation  of 
men.  Evolution  is  not  in  evidence. 

In  the  face  of  experience  of  a  hundred 
generations,  the  man  of  To-day  decides  that  he 
is  able  to  make  his  own  experiment  with  life 
although  he  is  warned  of  certain  shipwreck. 


294  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

He  will  not  believe  in  that  shipwreck  until  he 
experiences  it ;  then  he  desires  to  warn  another, 
a  younger.  But  that  other  also  exercises  his 
prerogative  of  individual  experience,  and  in 
time  they  both  cling  to  the  same  life-raft. 

It  seems  that  it  is  just  here  that  the  spirit 
of  man,  the  soul  of  man,  of  each  individual, 
stands  apart  from  every  other  of  the  race.  It 
will  do  its  best  to  work  with  the  machine  with 
which  it  is  supplied  and  with  which  it  must 
perform  its  work,  if  at  all.  The  machine  may 
change,  may  be  obliged  to  adapt  itself  to  new 
environment ;  but  the  spirit  of  man  remains  the 
same.  It  begins  and  ends  in  itself. 


XX 


BEACONS 
I. 

ON  the  wall  of  my  bedroom  I  may  see  at  any 
hour,  at  any  minute  of  a  dark,  clear,  moonless 
night,  the  reflection  of  the  wax  and  wane  of  the 
great  beacon  light  seven  miles  across  the  moors 
on  Sankaty  Head. 

The  first  time  I  was  aware  of  this,  I  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  some  optical  illusion ; 
perhaps  an  extra  blood  pressure  on  the  optic 
nerve,  or  that  curious  effect  we  may  sometimes 
note,  when  the  eyes  are  closed,  of  strange, 
running,  colored  gleams  of  purple  and  yellow 
lights  apparently  crossing  the  retina  and  retir 
ing  from  sight  somewhere  above  the  left  ear. 
But,  investigating  shortly,  I  found  it  was 
merely  the  reflection  of  the  great  light  on  San 
katy  Head. 

295 


296  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

In  the  moonlight  this  beacon  shines  as  Capella 
shines  in  a  clear,  dark  winter's  night  when  it 
mirrors  itself  in  the  harbor  waters.  Its  light  is 
visible  to  the  mariner  forty  miles  at  sea.  At 
times,  in  exceptional  gales,  the  flying  spume  dims 
it.  In  fog  it  is  obscured.  But  even  when  I 
cannot  see  it,  I  know  it  is  always  there. 

2. 

It  would  be  a  matter  of  amazement  if  some 
were  to  ask,  —  and  in  all  probability  the  ques 
tion  might  be  put  to  me,  "How  do  you  know  it 
is  always  there  ?  What  proof  have  you  if  you 
cannot  see  it  in  fog  or  heavy  storm  ?" 

I  make  answer  :  "Simply  because  I  know  it 
is  there." 

"But  that  is  no  reason,"  says  one. 

I  reply  that  I  know  it  is  there  because  night 
after  night  I  have  seen  it  there ;  because  I  have 
faith  to  believe  it  there,  having  seen  it  so  many 
times." 

"But  that  is  no  reason,"  a  second  makes 
objection;  "your  faith  does  not  prove  it." 

Now,  what  answer  shall  be  made  to  this  ? 


BEACONS  297 

If  I  say  :  "If  you  will  take  sloop,  or  schooner, 
or  tug,  and  in  snow  and  sleet,  in  the  teeth  of  a 
sixty-mile-an-hour  gale  contrive  to  double  Great 
Point,  work  along  past  Great  Round  Shoal 
and  get  under  the  lee  of  Sankaty,  or  if  you  will 
cross  the  moors  in  the  face  of  the  blizzard  till 
you  actually  reach  the  light,  you  will  find  it 
there.  Make  your  own  experiment;"  they  will 
protest  :  — 

"But  that  is  impossible.  You  know  per 
fectly  well  we  could  not  make  that  journey  by 
land  or  sea  without  guide  and  compass,  or 
even  with  them  in  such  a  storm.  We  should 
be  exhausted ;  we  should  perish." 

"Well,"  I  conclude,  "then  if  you  were  to 
attempt  it  you  would  perish  ;  but  the  light  would 
be  there  for  all  your  perishing.  And  what  you 
assert  is  no  argument  against  my  faith  in  the 
keeper's  trustworthiness." 

3- 

This  ocean  that  I  see  from  my  windows  was 
uncharted  when  Columbus  set  sail  on  it. 
But  he  had  the  stars,  a  compass  that  varied  — 


298  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

and  faith.  With  these  he  went  forth  on  unknown 
seas  —  and  finally  gave  to  us  our  country. 

An  astronomer  of  the  present  day  might  be 
able  to  prove  to  Columbus  that  the  star  by 
which  he  guided  his  little  caravel  was  not  there ; 
that  it  had  been  dispersed  in  star  dust  aeons  before 
the  Santa  Maria's  keel  ploughed  the  unknown 
ocean  ;  that  what  he  saw  was  but  the  simulacrum 
of  the  star  —  the  light  of  it  merely  which  was 
travelling  for  millions  of  years  after  the  disper 
sion  of  the  star  to  reach  the  discoverer's  eye. 

I  can  fancy  Columbus'  look  of  amazement 
after  having  given  to  his  sovereigns  a  new  world 
to  hear  that  he  was  guided  thereto  by  a  simu 
lacrum  of  a  star.  In  imagination  I  hear  his 
answer  in  no  uncertain  tone  : 

"The  light  was  there,  star  or  no  star.  I 
saw  it;  by  it  I  steered  my  caravels.  Behold 
the  result!" 

This  is  the  test  :   "Behold  the  result." 

4- 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  I  am  told,  that  to  man 
alone  among  animals  belongs  the  inspiratory 


BEACONS  299 

cry.  There  was  breathed  "into  his  nostrils 
the  breath  of  life;  and  man  became  a  living 
soul." 

And  here  is  its  corollary  :  "Then  shall  the 
dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was  ;  and  the  spirit 
shall  return  unto  God  who  gave  it." 

Here  we  have  the  Human  case  :  Birth  — 
Death ;  the  spirit  given  from  a  source  and  the 
spirit  returning  to  that  source  —  inspiratory 
cry,  expiratory  sigh.  Between  the  two,  man 
pilgrimages  from  Infinity  to  Infinity.  Faith  is 
the  sustenance  of  the  spirit  on  this  journey  as 
food  is  the  sustenance  for  the  body. 

5- 

"But  where  begin  with  faith  ?  What  beacon 
can  guide  us  ?" 

The  answer  is  very  simple  :  Begin  with  the 
child. 

"But  how  begin  ?     We  are  at  sea." 
Again  the  answer  is  simple  :   Begin  by  teach 
ing  the  child  faith  in  God  as  his  Creator. 

"But  if  we  do  not  have  the  faith  to  teach  ?" 
Then  do  not  teach  the  child.     Take  to  gar- 


300  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

dening  where  you  have  faith  that  a  seed,  which 
you,  nor  I,  nor  any  human  can  animate,  once 
put  into  good  ground  and  tended  by  you  will 
sprout  and  thrive.  Take  to  cooking  where  you 
make  bread  irrespective  of  your  ignorance  of 
how  to  animate  the  kernel  of  wheat  that  it 
may  grow  and  produce  the  flour  of  which  you 
seem  perfectly  willing  to  make  your  bread  — 
and  eat  of  it  as  well.  Take  to  "clerking",  to 
stenography,  to  weaving,  spinning,  hoeing,  even 
—  but  leave  the  teaching  of  a  child  to  some  one 
who  has  faith  and  is  not  afraid  to  confess  it. 

6. 

Mr.  Peter  Roberts  in  his  exhaustive  studies 
of  the  "Anthracite  Coal  Industry"  and  the 
"Anthracite  Coal  Communities"  writes  in  con 
clusion  : 

"If  society  is  to  be  saved,  the  regenerating 
power  can  only  come  from  the  moral-spiritual 
nature  of  man,  and  every  force,  either  in  society 
or  industry,  which  grinds  the  altars  of  a  nation 
will  ultimately  grind  to  powder  the  foundations 
upon  which  society  rests." 


BEACONS  301 

One  altar  of  our  nation  was  broken,  at  least, 
when  in  this  generation  the  simple  petition, 
"Our  Father",  was  made  not  obligatory  in  the 
common  schools. 

The  impressions  received  in  childhood,  the 
habits  formed,  in  the  majority  of  cases  persist 
through  life ;  it  is  the  way  of  the  plant,  the  way 
of  the  sapling.  No  nation  can  afford  to  ignore 
this  fact  :  That  its  children  are  the  hope  of  its 
strength.  This  fact  is  both  spiritual  and  eco 
nomical. 

In  our  common  schools  the  children  are 
taught  to  salute  the  flag ;  it  is  made  for  them  a 
symbol  of  their  country.  The  government  that 
should  lay  an  embargo  on  this  teaching  would 
prove  unfaithful  to  its  great  trust. 

I  hold  that  it  is  just  as  unfaithful  to  a  greater 
trust  —  greater  because  universally  human,  not 
merely  national  —  when  it  attempts  to  educate 
the  child  and  at  the  same  time  omits  to  teach 
him  reverence  for  his  Creator. 

"But  the  majority  of  children  have  some 
religious  instruction.  Does  not  this  fill  the 
need?" 


302  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

By  no  means.  For  I  am  not  considering 
"religious  instruction"  of  any  kind  as  we  under 
stand  it.  Religious  instruction,  so  called,  given 
once  or  twice  a  week  does  not  meet  the  need  of 
this  special  case  or  apply  to  it. 

Between  the  hours  of  9  and  12  A.M.  the  mind 
of  the  child  is  freshest,  most  impressionable. 
That  mind  expands  like  a  plant  to  imbibe  in 
fluences.  The  delicate  brain-films,  after  sleep, 
are  most  sensitive  to  impressions.  The  child 
does  his  best  work  between  these  hours ;  atten 
tion  fixes  itself  with  less  strain ;  interest  is  roused 
with  less  effort ;  mischief  is  not  so  rampant 
as  during  the  afternoon  session.  In  these  three 
precious  hours  not  only  should  the  child's  mind 
be  fed  but  its  soul.  The  soul-feelers  are  at  work 
seeking  spiritual  food.  When  they  are  given 
nothing,  they  turn  inward  on  themselves,  fam 
ished  in  part. 

The  child  comes  out  of  the  fresh  air,  perhaps 
sunshine,  rain  or  snow  —  all  true  delights  to  a 
healthy  child  —  to  enter  into  confinement  for 
three  hours,  with  thirty  or  forty  other  children, 
between  four  walls  darkened  by  blackboards, 


BEACONS  303 

and  into  an  environment  foreign  to  his  thoughts. 
During  these  three  hours  certain  habits  are  in 
the  process  of  formation;  the  intellect  is  sup 
posed  to  be  quickened,  and  is  in  most  cases ; 
the  soul  —  that  is  not  provided  for.  Now  the 
soul  of  a  child  is  as  constantly  with  him  and  a 
part  of  him  as  his  brain  —  and  needs  as  much 
sustenance,  if  not  more.  There  are  various 
ways  of  providing  it  which  it  is  not  my  province 
to  touch  upon  except  in  this  one  case. 

Upon  each  daily  entrance  into  this  foreign 
environment  for  a  child's  thoughts,  let  there 
be  made  the  simple  petition,  "Our  Father". 
Let  that  be  the  first  English  learned  by  the 
millions  of  our  foreign  child  population.  This 
is  no  special  instruction  in  any  "religion"  — 
this  simple  acknowledgment  of  a  Creator; 
but  it  teaches  as  nothing  else  can  teach.  Those 
few  minutes  of  reverent  silence  when  listening 
to  the  spoken  words,  or  the  reverential  habit 
that  is  formed  by  daily  repetition  of  those  few 
words,  makes  for  a  certain  attitude  of  mind 
impossible  without  it.  It  is  as  simple  as  lift 
ing  the  cap  in  the  presence  of  the  flag,  or  rising 


304  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

when    the     Star-Spangled    Banner     is    played. 
But   its    symbolism   sounds   far   deeper   depths 

—  the  soul  of  the  child. 

Lessing,  that  great  believing  unbeliever  says  : 
"We  can  be  unfaithful  to  a  national  god,  but 
never  to  the  true  God  when  once  we  shall  have 
known  him."  But  He  must  be  made  known. 

This  is  no  matter  of  creed,  doctrine,  or  reli 
gion  as  we  understand  that  word  —  that  atti 
tude  would  now  be  called  "antiquated";  it 
is  a  matter  of  forming  in  the  child  a  habit  of 
faith.  It  is  a  matter  of  giving  regularly  —  as 
the  breaking  of  fast  of  a  morning  is  observed 

—  to  the  child  what  the  child  spiritually,  but 
unconsciously,  needs  to  start  his  day. 

7- 

This  is  no  theory  upon  which  I  draw  to  illus 
trate  ;  I  draw  upon  experience. 

For  a  few  years  I  taught  in  a  school,  for  both 
boys  and  girls,  where  it  really  seemed  a  matter 
of  lese-majeste  to  name  the  Name.  The  curric 
ulum  of  the  school  was  made  on  the  basis  of 
science-teaching.  As  the  chiefs  failed  to  recon- 


BEACONS  305 

cile  science  with  what  that  Name  implies,  all 
mention  of  the  Name  was  considered  taboo. 
Yet  in  all  my  experience  I  have  never  witnessed 
more  earnest,  more  conscientious  work  for 
the  children's  sake.  It  was  beyond  criticism. 

It  was  a  curious  position  in  which  to  find  one's 
self.  Dealing  daily  with  childish  hearts,  child 
ish  brains,  children's  souls,  I  discovered  the 
fact  that  I  was  failing  all  along  the  lines  of 
instruction  when  I  could  not  freely  refer  to  the 
Creator  of  all  created  things. 

At  that  time  psychology  was  to  the  fore; 
and  I  at  once  began  that  study  in  the  hope  that 
it  might  afford  me  help  with  my  teaching; 
perhaps  prove  a  substitute  for  what  I  was  ex 
pected  to  omit  in  my  work.  Beginning  with 
Mr.  James'  "Psychology",  I  have  finally  fin 
ished  all  study  in  that  direction  with  an  attempt 
at  Professor  Miinsterberg's  "Psychotherapy". 
This  endeavor  covers  a  period  of  nearly  twenty 
years.  I  honestly  and  earnestly  tried  to  solve 
the  problem  presented  to  me  daily  by  these 
twenty-seven  children  —  my  special  class  —  by 
placing  myself  in  the  position  of  a  willing  and 


306  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

humble  disciple  of  men  who  knew  far,  far  more 
than  I  could  ever  attain  to;  whose  knowledge 
of  psychology  and  its  handmaid  physiology  was 
profound. 

But  in  Mr.  James'  words  :  "It  did  network." 
I  discovered  that  in  a  certain  direction  I 
knew  more  of  a  child's  soul  by  daily  contact 
with  the  child  along  certain  lines  of  instruction 
than  anything  Mr.  James  might  intimate. 
This  is  not  arrogance  of  knowledge ;  it  is  said 
humbly,  because  I  looked  from  my  own  soul  into 
the  child's  and  what  I  found  there  contradicted 
many  of  his  theories. 

I  found  I  was  dealing  with  some  spiritual 
facts  that  had  escaped  his  keen  analysis  and 
theoretical  excursiveness.  Indeed,  I  came  to 
the  conclusion  that,  if  I  may  be  permitted  the 
word,  he  was  "floundering"  spiritually.  I  speak 
only  for  myself ;  I  could  find  no  anchorage  with 
his  deductions. 

8. 

What  was  I  to  do  when  one  day  a  girl  of 
twelve,  with  all  my  sex's  inconsequence,  and 
apropos  of  nothing  —  or  so  it  seemed  to  me  — 


BEACONS  307 

I  think  we  were  at  work  on  some  clay  relief 
maps  of  South  America  —  said  suddenly  : 

"I  want  to  believe  the  Bible  is  true,  but  I 
can't." 

Poor  mite  !  I  knew  she  must  have  heard 
some  discussion  at  home ;  or  possibly  the  mak 
ing  of  the  relief  in  clay,  and  association  of  ideas 
had  brought  her  a  thought  of  Genesis  —  I  do 
not  know.  But  this  was  her  sudden  statement. 

I  could  not  ignore  it  —  and  we  were  not  sup 
posed  to  mention  that  Name.  I  was  on  the 
horns  of  a  dilemma  none  the  softest.  But  over 
against  the  soul  of  that  child  there  was  but 
one  duty  —  to  feed  it,  if  in  truth  I  could. 

As  the  class  was  listening  for  an  answer,  I 
spoke  to  all  :  "Children,  how  many  of  you 
had  bread  for  breakfast  this  morning?" 

The  hands  went  up  as  one. 

"  Who  made  the  bread  ? "  I  permitted  general 
answers  when  we  were  "off  guard"  as  I  used 
to  call  those  precious  minutes  for  a  child  when 
he  can  speak  in  class  without  raising  a  hand. 

I  received  various  answers  in  which  the  names 
of  certain  cooks  were  distinguishable. 


308  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

"Of  what  is  the  bread  made  ?"     All  knew. 

"Of  what  is  the  wheat  made  ?"  No  answer; 
that  called  for  enlightenment. 

I  told  them  of  the  kernel  of  corn  and  the 
wheat.  Then  I  sprang  a  question  on  them  : 
"How  is  a  grain  of  wheat  made,  now  that  I  have 
told  you  of  what  it  is  made?" 

They  could  not  tell  —  neither  could  I.  I 
explained  to  them  as  simply  as  I  could  what 
chemical  combination  is,  but  I  also  explained 
that  no  man,  try  as  he  might,  could  combine 
those  elements  to  make  one  grain  of  wheat  or 
a  kernel  of  corn ;  nor  could  he,  were  it  possible 
for  him  to  combine  these  elements,  make  the 
combination  grow.  "Now,"  I  said,  "if  a  man 
does  not  make  it  grow,  who  does  make  it  ?" 
There  was  a  faint,  timid  answer  here  and  there  : 
"God." 

"Yes,"  I  said  with  emphasis,  "God  the 
Creator."  And  with  these  words  a  great  bur 
den  for  those  children's  sake  rolled  from  my 
soul.  I  spoke  from  absolute  conviction  —  and 
they  knew  it.  "And,  Helen,"  I  continued, 
speaking  to  the  small  girl  who  had  made  the 


BEACONS  309 

dispiriting  statement,  "would  you  not  find  it 
very  unreasonable  and  foolish  to  refuse  to  eat 
bread  because  you  cannot  know  just  how  it  is 
made  to  grow,  and  because  no  one  living  or  dead 
has  been  able  to  make  it  grow  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  can  you  not  trust  God,  who  made  us, 
for  many  of  these  things  you  cannot  under 
stand  ?  Do  you  refuse  to  breathe  because  you 
cannot  see  the  air  you  breathe  ?" 

Never,  never  shall  I  forget  the  flush  of  joy 
that  illumined  that  sweet  face  as  she  said  with 
a  sigh  :  "Oh,  I  do  see  it  now ;  and  I  feel  so  much 
better." 

Dear  child  !  She  could  not  know  how  or  why 
she  "felt  better";  but  I  knew  :  she  had  been 
fed,  had  been  given  a  little  food  for  her  hungry 
little  soul.  And  this  instance  is  but  one  of 
many  of  which  I  have  knowledge. 

After  all  my  work  in  psychology  I  found  that 
the  soul  of  each  child  is  different  from  the  soul  of 
every  other  child.  On  this  rock  of  fact  all  my 
psychology  went  to  pieces.  Then  I  went  down 
on  my  knees  and  asked  for  help  over  against  the 


310  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 

soul  of  the  child.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is  needless 
to  say  that  I  handed  in  my  resignation  at  the  end 
of  the  year. 

9- 

God  is  not  mocked.  An  old  truth  that  is 
ever  new.  No  man,  or  woman,  who  has  not 
unwavering  faith  in  his  Creator  should  teach  a 
child.  No  man,  or  woman,  should  teach  science 
to  a  child  who  has  not  reconciled  his  faith  with 
that  science ;  who  has  not  truly  given  both 
consent  of  the  heart  and  assent  of  the  intellect. 
No  man,  or  woman,  can  be  asked  the  question 
by  a  child  :  "Who  made  a  star  ?  Who  made  this 
egg  ?  Who  made  this  butterfly  ?  Who  made 
me,  and  how?"  —  and  stand  for  a  moment 
in  the  searchlight  of  that  child's  soul  if  he  hesi 
tate  a  second  in  his  answer.  We  need  science; 
but  we  need  faith  in  a  Creator  to  go  hand  and 
hand  with  it. 

And  I  would  have  children  taught  science  from 
their  earliest  years  —  objectively,  of  course. 
Nothing  so  satisfies  the  inquiring  mind,  nothing 
so  stimulates  inquiry  to  effort  along  so  many 
life-lines  as  such  teaching  — 


BEACONS  311 

But  if  I  begin  on  this  most  interesting  matter 
I  shall  overrun  my  manuscript ;  indeed,  I  fear 
that  I  have  already. 

The  need  of  clear  vision  in  this  matter  of  the 
child's  education  was  never  so  pressing  as  in 
this  industrial  age.  We  are  in  a  transition 
state ;  all  sorts  of  forms  along  this  special  line 
are  being  evolved  in  our  endeavors  to  adjust 
ourselves  to  a  changed  environment.  This 
multiplicity  of  forms  confuses,  discourages, 
because  of  unsatisfactory  results.  It  obscures 
the  main  object,  the  great  beacon  for  this  our 
Twentieth  Century  and  all  future  centuries  : 
The  work  that  works  in  faith  and  hope.  What 
a  beacon  light  this  is  ! 

We  must  work  in  hope  and  teach  others  to 
work  in  hope ;  we  must  live  in  faith,  while  we 
work  in  hope,  and  inspire  faith  in  others ;  but 
to  do  this  we  must  make  conditions  such  that 
educationally,  industrially,  economically,  spirit 
ually,  men  and  women,  yes,  and  little  children, 
shall  be  enabled  to  work  in  hope  —  shall  live  in 
faith. 

I  see  no  other  salvation  for  our  Human  Race. 


3i2  FROM  AN  ISLAND  OUTPOST 


10. 

FEBRUARY  9,  1914. 

The  sunset  was  very  fine  to-night.  I  like  to 
see  it  in  the  east  by  reflected  light ;  the  effect 
is  wonderfully  beautiful.  The  waters  of  the 
harbor  were  heaving  in  the  strong  wind ;  they 
were  dark  green.  The  shores  of  Monomoy  and 
Shimmo  were  pale  yellow  and  black  in  the 
level  light ;  one  long,  dark  band  behind 
them  marked  the  plantation  of  dwarfed  pines. 
The  great  sand  dune  of  Pocomo  Head  gleamed 
deep  orange  in  the  strong  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  The  shadows  on  the  gray  chimneys  were 
sharply  defined.  Above,  in  a  sky  partly  filled 
with  heavy  drifting  clouds,  the  full  moon  was 
shining  faintly. 

At  the  moment  of  sunset  the  great  Sankaty 
Beacon  twinkled  across  the  moors.  As  dusk 
fell,  the  moon,  shining  from  behind  the  dark, 
drifting  clouds,  silvered  a  portion  of  the  harbor 
waters.  A  little  light  shone  out  here  and 
there  in  the  houses  below  the  "Bank"  and 
in  the  fishermen's  huts  on  the  shore  —  small 


BEACONS  313 

coastwise  beacons.  Brant  Point  gleamed  on 
the  left ;  and  far  away  on  Great  Point  the  third 
light  on  this  Island  Outpost  in  the  Atlantic 
signalled  across  the  Sound  to  Monomoy  on  the 
Cape. 


YB  73228 


M159985 


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